


15 Minutes

by elbafo



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Canon Compliant, Drug Use, F/M, First Time, Missing Scenes, Prostitute, Romance, Season/Series 02, Season/Series 03, Season/Series 04
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-27
Updated: 2018-07-27
Packaged: 2018-08-11 08:33:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 121
Words: 554,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7884196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elbafo/pseuds/elbafo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sex doesn't alarm him, but how would he know? Sherlock takes offence at being called The Virgin. A series of encounters—sexual and not—between Sherlock and a prostitute. Sherlock loses his virginity, but finds something else. Starts post S2E1. Adheres to canon events. Missing scenes and in-betweens.</p><p>NOW POSTING SERIES 4!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Don't Be Alarmed, It's To Do With Sex

**Author's Note:**

> My story starts during Series 2, between ASiB and HoB. It contains spoilers for all seasons as per the following list:
> 
> Series 2 - Ch. 1-12
> 
> Series 3 - Ch. 13-70
> 
> Series 4 - Ch. 71 onwards

 

Sexual intercourse.

Hardly alarming, and not completely unattainable, especially for a man who possessed the skills to charm. Sherlock Holmes just never bothered with it. His body existed merely for transport. And yet this evening he found himself standing in a converted detached house in North London, negotiating with a young, petite, chestnut-haired prostitute.

He cleared his throat, fixed her with a steady gaze and said, "No, thank you. I just want to lose my virginity as I requested over the phone."

She blinked twice, but otherwise didn't display anything remotely resembling ridicule or disappointment at having been turned down after offering Sherlock an initial massage.

Sherlock had been to this end of North London many times before. Admittedly those occasions were for far more noble reasons—missing diamond, drug seizures, the mystery of the blind albatross and the case of the glass skull. This time, however, the trip was purely selfish.

He had checked out the establishment in the days leading up to this particular visit. He wanted to make sure none of the employees were there because they were victims of crime and forced into this way of life against their will. He was also thorough in conducting a background check on the owners: were they part of a vast criminal network, or were they struggling independent operators and perhaps worthy of Sherlock's custom. In the end, he found that the owners constituted an ex-police officer and his wife, an ex-prostitute herself.

Surreptitious enquiry had him confirm that this dwelling was not currently the focus of any undercover police investigation by the Met, as he'd found was the case with many of the brothels operating out of flats in the well-known red-light district of Soho. It wouldn't do to be caught with his trousers down, so to speak.

There was one more factor in his choice of service outlet: it had to be positioned in a relatively quiet street out of the prying eyes of the city's CCTV network. He wouldn't want Big Brother jumping to the right conclusion.

Once he was satisfied with his research, Sherlock made a quick phone call to the establishment listed under Massage Parlours in Yellow Pages online using a pre-paid mobile phone. He listened with impatient disinterest to the number of optional extras the receptionist quoted him. He knew it wouldn't be the receptionist with whom he would be engaging in sexual intercourse, but the price list and options had to be recited to him anyway so that there was no misunderstanding once his trousers were down.

A person could sell him sex and he could purchase it legitimately if it were a one-to-one transaction. Operating a brothel was illegal, hence the cover of Massage Parlour.

An appointment time for that very same evening was booked in and Sherlock found himself forty-five minutes later standing outside on the pavement in front of the house, two doors down from the local church. He'd been given directions to the house as he had walked along the street, and they would only give him those directions while he remained on the phone.

The hoops he had to jump through just to lose his virginity!

It was one of those dull, repetitive, unremarkable Tuesdays: rainy, cold, and murderless. What else was he going to do with his time anyway?

Sherlock instantly recognised the type of house as he strode up the path. It was one of those residences previously owned by fully regulated private landlords who were registered with the Government Housing Ombudsman to provide accommodation to students who did not want to live in rowdy, crowded university accommodation. Whatever the status of the dwelling currently, it also doubled as a massage parlour. Was it even registered with the authorities? Sherlock idly wondered if the neighbours knew what was going on in their street.

Once inside, Sherlock was requested to pay a twenty-five pound door fee giving him entrance to the parlour. In theory, whatever went on upstairs between him and his masseuse would be totally between them and unknown to the owners of the parlour. Apparently. Therefore  _not a brothel._

The receptionist, an older woman named Cynthia, asked if he'd like to look at the girls and if he had a preference, to which he replied he would like an English woman ( _why do they say 'girl'?_ ) who was deemed the most intelligent. His reasoning—which he hadn't vocalised—being that an English female meant there was less of a chance that she was a victim of sex trafficking, and a moderate to high level of intelligence prevented Sherlock having to explain everything twice.

"That would be Shelley," Cynthia replied instantly.

Whether Cynthia had made a decision about Shelley so quickly because of an anglo-saxon heritage or because of her IQ, Sherlock couldn't immediately tell.

Cynthia (and Sherlock had quickly established that it were she who was the ex-prostitute and part-owner) disappeared into another room, presumably where the employees waited. Sherlock was thankful he hadn't been left to wait in a room full of prostitutes lolling about on lounges, displaying their wares and eyeing him lustfully. A small establishment then.

At one stage, a tall, greying man strode through the room Sherlock had been left in. By his gait and the wary eye he cast over Sherlock, the Consulting Detective knew that this was the other owner and the ex-police officer. The man's role then, in the interests of safety, was to make his presence known to every punter that walked through the door.

Sherlock could hear Cynthia talking in a hushed tone to another person, presumably  _Shelley The Intelligent English One_ , but he couldn't determine the exact words that passed between them.

"Be gentle with him. He looks delicate," were Cynthia's words of advice to Rose, after telling the young woman that her next client was a virgin.

Cynthia also advised Rose that she had quoted the punter fifty pounds over the phone, exclusive of the door fee. She added if Rose wanted to include any extras other than the standard service of a massage, a bit of oral followed by straight sex, she was free to upsell him once they were upstairs. The usual procedure then. And he had requested the minimum amount of time: fifteen minutes.

Rose left the dining room that had been turned into a private lounge for the girls' benefit, and planted a fake smile on her face as she greeted her next client.

"Hello, John," she said, extending her hands. "I'm Shelley."

When Shelley clasped his hand in both of hers and planted a soft kiss on his cheek, Sherlock's insides hardened. The kiss on the cheek was meant to endear her to him, much the same as  _The Woman_  had done just before he spent less than five seconds deciphering a coded email for her. How was he going to cope with sexual intercourse with a complete stranger if his automatic reaction was to retrieve unpleasant memories from his Mind Palace?

His stomach had also dropped at hearing her say John's name. He was an idiot for choosing his flatmate's name as his pseudonym. It had been the first name to pop into his head. A word association gone wrong, he thought. Provide a man's name, one who could potentially have sex with a woman. Therefore  _John Watson_  and his dismal efforts at dating came to mind. There. See? Easy mistake to make. Thankfully Sherlock only had to supply a first name, but it was far too late to stammer out an alternative.

Sherlock raked an expert eye over Shelley, his masseuse, in a matter of seconds as the young woman bid him to follow her upstairs. She was dressed simply in a transparent black lace robe that gaped open, revealing a burgundy lace bra, a garter, some kind of almost non-existent underwear and stockings. Her attire should've come as no surprise. Sherlock had hoped his service provider would be dressed in ordinary street clothes, and if so, he may have been able to read her background at a glance, which would've held some entertainment value.

Alternatively, it had entered his mind a few minutes prior that perhaps she would be wearing one of those SOCO coveralls that Scotland Yard tried to get him to wear once upon a crime—you never know, what with Health and Safety regulations these days and the current climate of litigation. There may be a minimum requirement if only for sanitary reasons.

Unfortunately a complete character reading was not immediately forthcoming as they ascended the narrow staircase, with Shelley making inane comments such as, "We're going to have so much fun!"

Intelligent? He thought not based on that comment alone. Sherlock would only consider this 'fun' if she were to disappear into a locked room all of a sudden, get murdered with some obscure instrument, with the unknown perpetrator immediately taking flight. Only  _then_  would the fun begin.

But no. This wasn't going to be fun.

This was a necessity.

Rose brushed aside the curtain that screened part of the passageway where the doors to the Fantasy Suite and the bathroom opposite were located. It afforded a small amount of privacy if either her or her client needed to use the bathroom after they had already disrobed.

She waited until John— _yes, that's an original name_ —ducked through the curtain after her, then she drew it closed behind him.

"So we can start with a massage," she began, before her client informed her of his simple request for straight sex only.

Rose considered the long list of optional extras. The man was a virgin. She may confuse him or scare him away, so she decided to leave out the upsell for today.

"Okay," she said, and she advised him in a flat monotone all the things she would not be doing to him, and all the things he could not do to her. Rose noticed his eyes widening ever so imperceptibly. When she'd finished, she gave him what she thought was a meaningful look. When he failed to react, she added, "So that's fifty pounds."

"Oh. Right," he replied, immediately reaching into his jacket for a wallet.

He handed over a fifty pound note and Rose then invited him to have a shower.

"I had a shower at home before I came," he replied succinctly.

Rose briefly considered his response. He  _did_  smell like expensive aftershave, and he was dressed quite smartly. It was entirely up to her whether or not to insist that a client completely showered or just washed his genitals beforehand. Rose decided to let this one through. The talcum powder was always on hand if she felt he needed something.

"Why don't you go in," she said, indicating the bedroom. "I'll just be a second. You can start undressing if you like."

Rose left the passageway via the curtain and swiftly strode to the top of the landing where a table sat with a locked box on top. She placed the money into an envelope that already had her name written on it. She then dropped the envelope into the slot at the top of the box, which would be emptied by one of the owners in a few seconds.

She paused for a moment and drew in a deep breath.

She would be giving this client his first ever sexual experience. She'd never been with a virgin before, at least to her knowledge. She'd had a few lousy lays that she could've classified as clumsy virginal attempts, but she had never known for sure. Suddenly she felt for this man. His first experience of sex with a woman would be in a brothel, with a prostitute. Why? He seemed like a decent man, if a bit abrupt, but well-spoken, probably well-educated, sharply dressed, no obvious deformities or disabilities. He seemed kind of handsome in his own way.

_Hang on a sec, Rose. You haven't seen him naked._

Rose smiled ruefully to herself, then crossed the passageway to the curtained area. Her insides were now fluttering with performance anxiety. She would be his first. She had the sudden urge to tell him to leave. Find a young woman at a charity croquet match or whatever it was that posh people did. Fall in love. Seduce the posh heiress.

No.

He was here for a reason. She'd be his first, so she'd better make it spectacular. Fifty pounds worth of spectacular.

Sherlock had removed his jacket and had hung it on a coat stand. He was just unbuttoning his cuffs when Shelley entered the room. She gave him a half-smile and closed the door behind her.

In her absence, he had quickly scanned the room. There was a white wardrobe, a dresser, two bedside tables on either side of the bed, and a chest underneath the window. All of the furniture matched and obviously came from the same factory outlet.

On top of the chest sat a basket containing unidentifiable items. He'd peruse those later if he got the chance. He hadn't quite figured out their purpose.

He began to make light work of his shirt buttons as Shelley approached the bed and began to pull down the coverlet.

"Did you have good day?" she asked, glancing in his direction and smiling.

"No," he said, creases appearing in his brow. He gave a tiny shake of his head. "Don't do that."

Rose straightened up from turning down the bed.

"Do what?" she asked.

"Attempt to make small talk with me."

Her expression told Sherlock that she didn't know how to respond to that. He turned his back on her and slid his shirt from his shoulders. He folded it sideways and lay it on a chair. When he turned back to Shelley she was just sliding her robe from her shoulders having finished with the bed covers. Sherlock watched her for a moment, his eyes narrowing.

 _Oh for God's sake,_ he groaned inwardly. "Do you always disrobe this slowly?" he asked, fully vocalising his annoyance.

Rose managed a smile anyway. She tilted her head and asked, "Am I too slow for you?"

 _Too slow?_  At what point did she assume he was a half-wit.

He said, "I thought the point of undressing was to reveal your naked body. I assume there's some kind of visual stimulation you're going for by taking your time. As I only have fifteen minutes you may like to speed things up a bit?"

Rose then set about quickly removing her knickers in a slightly less elegant manner. Sherlock continued to stare impassively at her, which Rose found hugely disconcerting. Seemingly satisfied with her efforts, he started unzipping his fly. Rose began to get an inkling about what aspect of him had prevented him from seeking out a regular woman and losing his virginity to her: his personality.

"Would you like to start with us standing," Rose began, as her client's trousers dropped to the floor with him stepping out of them, "or would you be more comfortable on the bed?"

She tentatively approached him as he stooped to pick up and shake out his trousers. He cast an indifferent eye over her, raking his eyes from head to toe.

She suddenly felt self-conscious and exposed now that she was completely undressed, an odd predicament in which a prostitute should find herself. He had turned from her, and was carefully draping his trousers over the back of the chair.

"I'm the virgin," he began by way of a response, before turning back to face her, a half-smile forming on his face. "You're the prostitute. I'm relying on your expert opinion."

Rose opened her mouth to say something, anything, when her client grasped the top of his black boxer trunks and drew them down, stepping out of them in one fluid movement. Before he fully straightened up again, Rose mentally prepared herself for resuming her role as an experienced sex worker. Her stock standard phrases presented themselves in her mind, ones that would follow a cute gasp on her part, that would communicate her pleasant surprise at her seeing the evidence of her well-endowed client whether or not that was actually the case.

But no such noises left her lips on this occasion. Her client had momentarily turned his head to drop his underwear onto the chair, so Rose had a split second in which to recompose herself. She narrowed the distance between them and draped an arm around his neck, pressing her body against his.

"Here is fine," she murmured, while brushing her lips to his neck. She pressed soft kisses there, trailing to his jawline, feeling his body tense in response.

Any second now she expected to feel his growing arousal. The relief that she could see he had no obvious deformities had been overshadowed by her surprise that her client didn't already have an erection. Not even half an erection. He wasn't anywhere near being turned on by her or the expectation of sex.

"I thought kissing wasn't allowed?" Sherlock asked, his voice unusually tight and strained.

"On the lips," Rose replied, one hand gliding smoothly down his chest. She had quite a bit of work to do.

Suddenly Sherlock was away from her, leaving Rose reeling in his absence.

"Perhaps the bed would be better," he said, moving swiftly across the floor.

He emitted an audible tut as he stood looking down at the white towel that was draped across the width of the mattress.

"Am I supposed to position myself on top of that?" he asked.

"Ah, yes, sorry," Rose responded, snapping herself out of her daze. "It's so—"

"To collect semen and other bodily fluids secreted during sex," Sherlock finished for her, before lying down on top of the towel, and propping his head up with a pillow. "So you don't have to constantly change the sheets. Obvious."

He laced his hands together across his stomach and stared at Rose as if waiting for a cup of tea.

Rose was frozen to the spot. She wasn't expecting this kind of behaviour from a virgin, or from any man who was preparing to have sex. She was curious that John was lying there as if he wasn't aware that he was naked, or that  _she_  was naked. A dozen questions formed in her mind. Her role as a sex worker in a brothel was cast aside momentarily. She approached the bed almost cautiously.

"Do you feel aroused looking at my body?" she asked.

Sherlock raked his eye expertly over the specimen in front of him.

"What do you see?" she added when he initially didn't reply.

Sherlock's mind entered visual input mode.

He took a sharp intake of breath before gushing, "Female, Caucasian, twenty-five to thirty, five foot five inches, approximately eight stone seven, hair colour natural, non-smoker, nail biter, no tan lines...anywhere, right-handed, you frequently carry a hefty load over your left shoulder, you usually wear low heels, and sit for prolonged hours, chewing pen—"

He stopped his mental exercise when he noticed her wide eyes. Well she  _had_ asked what he saw.

Sherlock swiftly added, "I see a nude female body. It's not like I haven't seen one before." Then he redirected his gaze to scan the furniture around him while he waited for Shelley to react in some way.

Rose was stunned at this response. She glanced again at his flaccid penis. Rounding the bed, and losing some of her seductress's deportment as she climbed onto the end of it, she asked, with incredulity creeping into her tone, "So you're not even slightly aroused yet?" The question slipped out before Rose even thought to censor it. Such a question to a client would be frowned upon. Her current client, however, didn't seem to mind.

Sherlock's eyes glistened as if he had somehow won a challenge issued to him. "If that was your attempt at visual stimulation then you've failed. Is this what they teach you?"

A tiny laugh escaped Rose in spite of herself, causing Sherlock's face to soften to some degree.

"What if I touch myself?" she asked, finally composing herself, back on script again. She was still determined to get some sort of  _rise_  out of him.

"What would be the point of that?" he asked. "If you want me to get an erection, you're going to have to perform direct manual stimulation. On me. Not your own body."

"You know, you're a bit like a child," she blurted out, then she bit her tongue. "I'm sorry, forget I said that."

"Why should I forget you said that?"

"It's not an acceptable comment to a client."

"So why did you say it?"

Rose hesitated, not sure if she should answer him. But then again, he wasn't like a regular client. He didn't seem to take offence at the comments she theoretically wasn't allowed to make. He didn't seemed to mind this frank conversation.

"Because a child doesn't see a naked body in a sexualised way. They haven't reached the developmental stage where hormones and experience make their body react sexually either consciously or subconsciously."

Sherlock absorbed Rose's words before offering his own summary. "So you think I haven't had the necessary experience to view your naked body in a sexualised way?"

"Or to become aroused at the mere suggestion of having sex with me." She couldn't believe she was having this conversation. Meanwhile, her client was lying before her completely naked, and not aroused one bit.

Sherlock was enjoying the conversation. It almost sounded like a hypothesis worth testing. "Do you think this experience will change that?"

Rose noted the almost eagerness in Sherlock's eyes, incorrectly attributing it to the impending act. "Do you want it to?" she asked.

Still speaking as if he were discussing a case with someone from the Yard, and not lying starkers next to a prostitute, Sherlock fixed her with an inquisitive gaze. "I'm asking your professional opinion."

"Possibly," she replied, without too much thought. She decided to stretch out alongside him. She was enjoying this.

This non-answer left Sherlock unsatisfied. Surely she was in a position to gather this kind of raw data and reach at least a half-intelligent conclusion from it. Still fascinated though he asked, "Don't they teach you these things?"

Rose propped her head up, resting on one elbow. Her expression softened and she said with a hint of amusement in her voice, "There isn't a school for prostitutes you know."

Sherlock eyed her with suspicion. Of course there was no such educational institution, but obviously she had been clued up elsewhere. He thought the beginnings of an interrogation may well be in order. "Why are you so versed in child psychology then?"

"Because I'm a..." Then she stopped. No personal details allowed. She'd become carried away with the conversation. How on earth had that happened? Get back on track, Rose, she scolded herself. "Let's just do this, yeah? You want to lose your virginity...let's get started."

Rose sat up and gently caressed Sherlock's chest, carefully remembering to take in his nipples, as he fixed her with an intense gaze. The sudden physical attention initially bothered him and the termination of the rather engaging conversation irked him somewhat. He had resigned himself to the fact that to lose his virginity someone else would actually have to touch him, and he had steeled himself for that first encounter.

Rose slowly navigated to his navel prompting Sherlock to tut and look at his watch. Rose looked at him, stunned.

"Faster?" she asked, feeling mildly amused.

Sherlock gestured with his palm facing out. "Moving right along to the part where we have sex."

"You need to be erect first," Rose said offhandedly.

"Then you need to place your hand around my penis," Sherlock remarked in a condescending fashion. Sherlock was unimpressed with the level of expertise so far.

Rose stifled a laugh. She might just surprise him. She bent over him and gently took him into her mouth. Sherlock swore and gasped at the shock of it.

 _At last!_  Rose thought.  _His first textbook reaction!_

The part of Sherlock's brain that enabled him to speak quite eloquently, his language centre, began to slowly shut down. It was as if the proprietor had decided to close the shop early, winding down machinery, switching off the lights, and turning over the little sign hanging on the door so that it now read 'Closed.'

Rose continued working, paying attention to Sherlock's breathing and the noticeable silence brought by his inability to speak. She felt in control again, thank goodness. But she shouldn't have commenced this act without a condom, the catch-22 being that she wouldn't have been able to roll the condom onto a flaccid penis. It was a risk she had been willing to take this time, with this man.

Sherlock moaned, the only sound he was capable of making.  _Sexual arousal due to direct manual stimulation, obvious._ _And_ _now and again in the shower or first thing in the morning. Vasodilation. Nothing that cannot be dealt with._  He felt his erection growing and quietly catalogued the process, trying to ignore the fact that it was actually a young woman's mouth and tongue that were gainfully employed on the task he usually reserved for his hand.

He was fully aroused now, so Rose slowly moved to kiss around his navel, working slowly back up along his torso to his chest, while she purposefully slid her body over his. Sherlock felt compelled to hold her in close proximity to perhaps encourage her to continue in her endeavours. That and the fact that it felt so fucking incredible; he hadn't wanted the sensation to end so he brought his hands up to hold her hips.

"There," she whispered, "Now we're ready."

Sherlock stared up at her, a new longing in his eyes, his lips parted slightly. Rose was straddling his body, but she had to reach over him to retrieve a condom from the side table.

She commenced working Sherlock with her hand, as his breath grew ragged and he inadvertently started caressing her back.  _A more familiar sensation_ , he thought.  _Pleasant, but predictable._  Usually his hand would be preoccupied, so that explained the movement it was taking now along her smooth -  _impossibly smooth?_  - skin.

 _Another response. Good_ , she thought.  _We're making progress._

Rose organised the protection while keeping Sherlock suitably stimulated. Sherlock decided he could tolerate wearing the prophylactic for this occasion. It didn't mean he was going to go all out and start wearing one of those ridiculous disposable forensics suits for the likes of Anderson.  _Oh no. Bugger! Anderson get out of my head!_

Rose straddled him again and whispered, "Ready?"

He silently nodded his acquiescence, still largely incapable of vocalising his thoughts.

Rose lowered herself down while he let out an audible moan. Sherlock honestly didn't know why or how those sounds were escaping. Well, he had a theory. The physiological responses to sexual stimulation were known to him. He just didn't anticipate his body not obtaining suitable permission from his brain before it enthusiastically joined the party.

He held onto Rose's hips as she started with a slow rhythm, otherwise he didn't know where else to place his hands. Clutching at the towel beneath him seemed as if he were on a rollercoaster ride, gearing himself up for the plunge. And he did not want to come off looking like he was scared.

Because of course he wasn't.

Meanwhile, Rose pondered another matter.  _I wonder if he considers this too slow?_

"Good?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

"Mmm," he nodded. Still no vocabulary to speak of.

Rose maintained eye contact with Sherlock's half closed eyes. She noted he had not relaxed completely. She would usually touch herself at this point, but she remembered that 'John' had dismissed that idea, so she started moaning, and whispering things to him, about his size, his prowess in bed—her "script", while she moved on top of him.

Sherlock listened with half an ear.  _Hang on,_ he thought.  _Is she saying something to me?_ The part of his frontal lobe that controlled reasoning slowly kicked into gear and his parietal lobe turned on language comprehension. Sherlock held his hands to Rose's waist, as if to stop her. His brow was drawn down in thought.

"What are you doing?" he asked, staring at her intently.

Rose was momentarily thrown by the interruption and Sherlock's expression. "I'm...we're having..."

"Not that. Your words, and... sounds. You're not enjoying yourself. You're not aroused. Stop pretending you are," he said tersely.

"Okay," Rose said, feeling quite disconcerted.

"Your pupils," Sherlock offered by way of explanation, "They're not dilated, and you're heart rate hasn't increased at all."

He showed her how he was holding her wrist, pressing lightly on her radial pulse.

"Whereas mine," he continued, moving her hand, palm facing downwards, onto his chest above his heart, "has increased significantly."

"I'll stop... then."

"I detest theatrical performances."

 _He's learning to articulate his likes and dislikes during sex. That was good,_  thought Rose. She continued her rhythm, moving slightly faster now. It seemed a little repetitive to her, but he had dismissed all her optional extras, so this would have to do.

"Close your eyes," she said.

"Why?" he all but whispered in response.

"So you can concentrate on what I feel like, without the visual distraction."

 _Somatic sensory perception,_ he mused,  _to isolate it from visual input, which clearly doesn't work on me. Either that or she's finding it difficult to do her job while I'm staring at her._

He did what she asked, without argument this time, to her relief. He seemed to like explanations, not fluffy statements, which was good. Rose was never one for poetry.

Rose saw that the tension had left 'John's' face. He was now moving his body under her, and encouraging her movements with his hands on her hips. His head tilted up slightly, small moans escaping from his lips.

Sherlock was torn between trying desperately to be in control of the situation (and what exactly would that entail?) and letting himself succumb to the sheer pleasure of the experience. His hands, with minds of their own, were all over her now, pulling at her, urging her. Her body had taken the responsibility his own hand would normally assume, but by now his hand would be operating at a more accelerated rate. How to let her know that?

Rose knew what he needed now, but perhaps he may want to take control of the situation? It was his first time after all.

"Get on top now," she commanded, climbing off him and moving aside. She thought he'd appreciate the direct order since he was The Virgin and she was The Prostitute.

Sherlock silently obliged, turning over and propping himself up on his elbows. He was slightly desperate to get back the sensation that had momentarily been cut off. With Rose's guidance, he was inside her once again, this time in complete control of how hard and how fast. Rose noted that he tried to keep his body away and not put any weight on her.

He was rapidly losing all rational thought. His desire and greed and the need to reach that final peak became his only obsession.  _This is,_  Sherlock thought in between just wanting to groan at the seemingly mindless indulgence of it,  _this is in no way alarming. There you go, Mycroft. Now I know. Sex doesn't alarm me. Now get out of my mind, you pretentious prick._

Sherlock's breath came in shorter gasps now, and Rose could just hear the start of a moan, signalling the beginning of the end. She encouraged him along, with the rhythm of her hips and hands, but not her voice, now she knew he had a preference for silence.

Sherlock knew what was happening—the sensation not unlike masturbation. He just needed to increase his speed, and he was glad Shelley was assisting him in this task. He held his breath, he was there, senses heightened, poised on the edge.

Rose felt him tense and gasp, not a shouter, thank goodness, and he rode it out in silence, a moan now and then, his shallow breathing beside her neck. Rose felt odd about not having to fake her own orgasm. She imagined the look he would give her if she started that shit now.

He collapsed onto her, then feeling completely self-conscious about the intimacy of contact, he rolled off her.

"That was... that was..." he stammered, his chest rising and falling, "far more aerobic than just masturbation."

Sherlock noted the minor panic that flittered across his consciousness. He swiftly dismissed it. It happened infrequently post-orgasm, and it had first manifested itself in early adolescence. His mind was always working, buzzing with a multitude of thoughts at once. He noticed in those experimentation days in his early teens that orgasms left his brain in a momentary state of quiet. That both scared and fascinated him. At first he thought he would remain permanently in that state: basically stupid, a moron, like the rest of the population, and that would perhaps explain how they got that way. But some days, when he felt he would burn out with the rapidity of his thought processes that he had little control over, he would masturbate to reach that quietened euphoria, if only for less than a minute.

Of course most boys his age masturbated for the orgasm, not for the refractory period that followed, and in fact, his older brother thought Sherlock was going through that awkward, constant hand-to-nob phase like the rest of them. Now that was irritating - the snide remarks, the constant chides and sneering. Sherlock just wanted to punch him in the face. In fact he had on one or two occasions.

Sherlock's consciousness returned to the present. These days he had more control over his thoughts; he could focus on one topic rather than flit between them, except when he was in an extreme state of agitation. Nicotine and other stimulants could help in that area though.

Sherlock's breathing had slowed, and his heart rate had almost returned to its normal state.

Rose smiled to herself. She liked him. He was honest and funny and intelligent. And she wasn't covered in his drool or sweat. Bonus.

"There's some tissues on the table and a rubbish bin below it if you'd like to..."

"Oh," Sherlock replied sitting up with his back to her. He finished cleaning himself up then looked at his watch.

"Good," he said, his voice echoing his usual efficient and business-like manner.

He got up off the bed, which Rose took as a signal that she must also, and started dressing.

"Congratulations," she said, retrieving her own clothes from the floor. "How does it feel to not be a virgin anymore?"

"Ridiculous label," he commented, putting on his underwear with his back to Rose. "Unless you've never masturbated before, the end result is still the same. What you use as friction should be irrelevant. Probably different for your lot," he added, waving his hand at Rose but not looking at her.

"I...guess," Rose responded, this time resisting the urge to laugh out loud. Friction! She was friction! That was a new one. And  _your lot_? She suspected that he was referring to females in general, not specifically prostitutes.

He turned back around to face her, while buttoning up his shirt. He narrowed his eyes at her. He had more blanks to fill in. "So what do you do now? Wash yourself to prepare for the next guy? Replace the towel?"

"Usually," she replied, grinning at 'John's' direct question. "But tonight's a slow night. Tuesday's often are."

She pulled on her robe, such that it was, and half-heartedly busied herself straightening up the sheets on the bed and folding up the towel to avoid staring at 'John' as he dressed.

"Do you do this all day long?" Sherlock asked innocently, grabbing his trousers from the chair.

"Uh, no."

"Just nights?"

"Some."

He gazed at her, narrowing his eyes as he pulled his trousers on. Then he glanced around the room.

"This isn't your room. Not even personalised."

"No, it suits a purpose."

He slowly looked her up and down, taking in the way she carried herself and how she had interacted with the space they occupied. He noticed one tiny thing he hadn't spotted earlier.

"Student," he said. It wasn't a question.

Rose was taken aback.

"No," she lied.

Sherlock paused while he was grabbing his jacket, surprised at her deliberate attempt to deceive him, not that her profession seemed to lend itself to honesty.

"You don't fit the demographic," he began. "You're not a migrant, a drug user or on the poverty line. You sound well-educated and the press recently reported a dramatic increase in students turning to prostitution to meet the costs of their tuition. And you have a small mark on the side of your left index finger. Bright yellow. Highlighter pen?"

Rose tried to hide her alarm at Sherlock's observations by saying, "For my own safety I can't really tell you any personal details about myself. You'll just have to be satisfied with the fact that my name is 'Shelley' and I am a sex worker."

A tiny smile began to stretch across her client's face. This surprised Rose.

"Do you accept tips?"

This wasn't what Rose was expecting to hear.

"Um, well, I... we..."

Rose was unsure. Tips had never been discussed here. There wasn't a process for receiving them.

"I suppose," she said slowly. "If I've exceeded your expectations."

Sherlock thought for a moment. "Well, I expected to have sex with you, which we did, so..."

"Okay," Rose responded, smiling. "You didn't enjoy yourself more than you thought you would?"

 _Enjoyment. The fun bit she was talking about earlier,_  he thought.  _My work is enjoyment, if it's suitably challenging. Provoking unreasonable reactions in my flatmate is a bit like enjoyment. Satisfying physical needs such as eating a good meal, sleeping, relieving one's bladder and...alleviating an unwelcome morning erection...not so much._

"Well, the sex fulfilled my expectations," he volunteered, "but the conversation was surprisingly stimulating."

"I don't think anyone has ever given me a tip for the conversation before," Rose replied, her eyes sparkling just a little.

"Here," said Sherlock, handing her a twenty pound note. "Perhaps if you stopped lying about everyone's sexual prowess while you were having sex with them, they might tip you more. Goodbye, Shelley."

Sherlock gave Rose a quick wink as he brushed past her and left the room.

.


	2. A Conductor of Light

"Hello again, John," Rose said pleasantly, as she entered the parlour from the private lounge.

Her client's expression barely suppressed a smile, she thought.

"Shelley," Sherlock replied amiably as she gave him a perfunctory kiss on the cheek.

Rose was relieved that 'John' must have enjoyed his first sexual experience enough to have wanted a return visit. He silently followed her up the narrow staircase, and she refrained from making her usual remarks about how much fun they were going to have. It didn't seem right this time.

"It's lovely to see you again," she said in all honesty as she closed the curtain behind him.

"I just wanted to let you know that your hypothesis was correct," he explained before Rose could ask if he would like a shower.

"Hypothesis?"

Sherlock had been bubbling with excitement for days—excitement that is, that he had strived to keep hidden from his flatmate. He had no real cases to investigate, but the knowledge that one small incident brought him occupied his mind and filled it with possible theories, and that was always a good thing. It was either that or administer several more nicotine patches to his arms. Or worse.

He turned to Rose and elaborated. "That sexual experience is a factor necessary for me to become aroused at the mere thought of having sex with you."

Rose had to instantly switch from wanton sex goddess to intellectual sparring partner. "You're aroused now?"

"Not now," he said, thrusting his hands into his trouser pockets. "Earlier. I was sitting in my dressing gown yesterday when my flatmate threw down his newspaper in disgust at some comment I'd made about his latest date or whatever, when an article about student loans caught my eye. Before I knew it, my thoughts had drifted to you, and what you did with your mouth. Next minute: erection."

He eyed her triumphantly. At the time of the incident itself, however, it was slightly more embarrassing and he had to surreptitiously skulk off to his room and deal with it before John noticed.

Rose huffed a small laugh, trying to imagine what everyday life would be like in 'John's' company. "That's...ah...wonderful, John!"

"I just thought you should know, so that you'll have one piece of anecdotal evidence to draw upon should anyone in the future ask you for your professional opinion about sexual experiences and arousal."

Rose was momentarily thrown. Yes. Because that was precisely what her sex craft lacked: anecdotal evidence during a philosophical discussion on sexual experiences as it related to sexual arousal.

"That's very kind of you," she responded. "But.. ah... is that all you came here for? Because you've made an appointment, and I'm going to have to charge you something whether we have sex or not. You had to pay the door fee didn't you?"

Rose was hoping his preference was to just sit and chat. She could pocket the cash with little effort or disrobing on her part.

Not exactly the gushing praise he was after, Sherlock thought. Of course that was what he had made the appointment for wasn't it? More sex. That was...quite...a...well, not an entirely unpleasant experience last time.

"Oh, yes," he said nonchalantly, reaching for his wallet. "Same again," he bid her, handing over a fifty pound note. "But not that play acting thing you were doing. That was irritating."

Rose stifled a laugh and asked Sherlock if he'd like a shower.

"I'm clean," he said abruptly, and about-turned, striding away from Rose and into the bedroom.

Rose was left reeling at the sudden confidence of her ex-virgin client as he shed his jacket and moved about the bedroom as if he owned it. She made for the earnings box at the top of the landing to deposit the money, then quickly returned, slipping off her robe and remaining garments before Sherlock could notice her and comment about how slowly she was undressing. She lay on the bed, on top of the white towel, and watched Sherlock carefully placing his garments onto the armchair as he disrobed.

He quickly glanced at her, his thoughts as ever returning to the pursuit of raw data. "How much do you earn per week?" he asked while removing his trousers.

"That's confidential," Rose replied.

"How much of the fifty pounds do you have to give Mark and Cynthia downstairs?"

"Again, confidential."

But Sherlock was persistent, keen to begin asking the right questions that would illicit some response, the information gained to add to his databank on prostitutes working in inner city brothels, or more specifically this one. "Twenty-five percent? Thirty?"

Rose smiled, refusing to answer, as Sherlock took off his boxers.

"Oh!" she said, her surprise genuine as she took in Sherlock's semi-arousal.

He looked at her proudly, then lay down on the bed. He was almost unaware that this involuntary reaction had taken place.

"Was that because you saw me naked, or was it from the anticipation of sex?" Rose asked, turning to lie on her side.

Sherlock thought, brow furrowed in concentration. "Huh, I don't recall. I may have glanced at you while we were talking about other things and my subconscious triggered the reaction."

He tutted at this missed opportunity for study.

Rose sat up, and moved closer to him as he muttered more to himself than to her, "Hmm. A subconscious reaction wouldn't be acceptable at just any time of day..."

"Well, you're halfway there now. Do you still want me to...play?" she asked, smiling pleasantly.

Sherlock nodded, still lost in thought about inappropriate times during which to have an erection.

Rose briefly drifted her hand down Sherlock's chest, careful not to take too long, lest she earn Sherlock's disapproval, before her hand encircled his penis. As he was already erect, she was able to roll on the condom before she started anything.

"Definitely not acceptable when I'm working," Sherlock continued to mutter.

"And where do you work?" Rose asked.

"I'm..." Sherlock started, but was unable to finish as Rose set to work once more.

Sherlock was much more relaxed this time—his thoughts alternating between purely appreciating the physical pleasure he was experiencing and analysing just what effect these experiences would have on his composure in the future.

It was the thought of her, or the vision of her that prompted the reaction, he reasoned. And that wouldn't occur just anywhere. It would only be in this specific location, surely. And...oh...

All thoughts died away again. He was lost in the specific sensation of her very focussed attention.

Once he'd found he was fully aroused, he simply said, "I'm ready."

Rose looked up. "I can keep doing this if you like?"

"No," he said. "That was good what you were doing last time, just not that nonsense you were rabbiting on about."

Rose suppressed a laugh again.

Once Sherlock had found something he liked, he preferred to stick with it: familiar faces, and places, ways of doing things. This was new, but he had found pleasure in that first experience and was keen for it all to happen exactly as it had done before.

This time Sherlock directed Rose as to when he was ready to swap positions. He relished the freedom to slip in deeper, teasing himself and experimenting with depth and pace. This was a purely physical pursuit, he acknowledged, and not inherent of his character, which was usually dedicated to the attainment of mental riches. _No matter. Just for tonight, because I'm bored and John's out._

Sherlock catalogued every physiological response his body made, whether voluntary or involuntary. He noted stimuli, the progression of time, and his ability to form coherent thoughts at different phases of arousal.

As his desire quickened, his nerves alert, senses heightened, heat pooling everywhere, the rare thought occurred to him: _I want more of this._ Gasping with pleasure, Sherlock fully surrendered to the intense power that consumed his body and wiped his mind. Every muscle went rigid, then a wave flowed under him, engulfing him, sweeping him up until he rode the crest until it left him breathless and sated.

Rose had noticed that he was slightly more vocal when he climaxed and that he stayed on top of her for a few seconds longer before rolling off.

"How was the friction for you this time?" she asked, feeling slightly mischievous.

He looked over to her, as he took in short, shallow breaths.

"Satisfactory," he stated simply.

As the cogs in his mind started slowly turning again, he reflected on the fact that during sex he identified a very primal need. More sex. The beginnings of an addiction, or had his body and some dark recessed part of his brain awakened a very base level of existence? The thought that he could regress into such an ordinary state repulsed Sherlock.

He lay his head back onto the pillow, staring at the ceiling as Rose again rolled onto her side to talk to him.

"You were going to tell me where you worked before I rudely interrupted you."

Sherlock managed a small smile as he met her gaze.

"I'm self-employed," he said carefully, deliberately choosing to remain enigmatic.

"As what?"

"A consultant."

"For?"

"We'll leave the details for future conversations. How about that?" he said, giving Rose a lopsided smile.

He sat up in order to clean himself up, then checked his watch. "Oh, good. Much more efficient this time."

Once he'd finished, he lay back down on the bed and turned to Rose.

"You don't have to keep checking your watch," she advised him. "I have a timer with an alarm.

"Oh," responded Sherlock, furrowing his brow. "I didn't hear it last time."

"You left one minute early. But don't worry, you have about five or ten minutes grace, in case you're still naked when the alarm goes off."

Sherlock tried to imagine the scenario of being in the throes of an orgasm, or perhaps not quite there yet and having sirens blasting throughout the building. "Has that ever happened with anyone?"

"Sometimes."

Sherlock tutted. "Morons."

Rose smiled in response, then asked, "As we still have about eight more minutes, what would you like to talk about?"

Sherlock thought of a multitude of topics about which he would like to engage in conversation with a prostitute, but he responded with, "If I ask questions about you, you just shut up shop."

"Well that's..."

"For your own safety, I know," Sherlock finished for her, mentally rolling his eyes at the precept.

There was silence for a few seconds before Rose ventured, "May I ask you a question?"

_Worst question ever,_ thought Sherlock. To Rose he replied, "That's all you ever do."

"It's my job to find out what you want. This is a service industry remember."

"So why are you asking permission to ask me a question?"

"Because it's more of a personal nature."

"So ask. If I don't want to answer the question I'll either lie or not say anything," he answered, grinning. That was usually the options available to him whenever his flatmate posed inane questions to him.

Rose laughed at the notion.

"Why did you want to lose your virginity? You don't seem like someone who really cares for sex, well not the intimacy of sex anyway. You seem to be satisfied with your happy ending, which you can obviously get from masturbating."

Sherlock remained pensive. Should he tell her the truth? His big, mean brother teased him? Some slutty blackmailer of royalty called him a virgin, as if it were a flaw? Their words shouldn't have bothered him, but they eventually played on his mind. And on an impulse one idle weekend he decided to research inner city brothels, which then extended into a few days' investigation finally resulting in making an appointment when his flatmate was out on a Tuesday night. He decided to rid himself of the label, and gain some experience.

But why the subsequent visit, he asked himself.

His flatmate was either dating someone, or on the lookout for someone to date. It was irritating to watch someone putting so much time and energy into trying to get off with the opposite sex.

Just what was the big deal about sex anyway?

Now that he'd had it, he could see some benefits, especially the part where you could just lie back and let someone else do all the work for you. And he'd only have to pay cash for it. He made one phone call and less than an hour later he had an attractive young woman's mouth wrapped around his cock. John took weeks just to get the pleasure of buying some woman a meal and watching her eat it, while engaging in mundane conversations. Then he'd take two or three more weeks going to the cinema and watching movies he didn't enjoy, having lunch dates and walks in the park, more conversations that sounded dull in their entirety, and then, maybe then, he'd manage to 'get off' with whomever he was dating. And even then, he may not get the pleasure of an attractive woman sucking him off.

Ridiculous.

And don't even get Sherlock started on the number of lies John had to tell in order to wend his way through this dating maze of hell.

Pathetic.

Why was Sherlock paying for sex?

Because he could. It was easy. He enjoyed it.

Because he enjoyed...

...her.

...It.

The realisation that his last thought might have a small amount of truth to it made Sherlock dismiss it immediately. So, to Rose he answered, "Knowledge is power. Sex was an area in which I had no practical experience. In my line of work, it's an asset to know the motivations of the human psyche, what drives men to their madness and women to despair."

Rose sat up and curled her legs underneath her. Without thinking, she reached over and held Sherlock's hand in hers and said, "Well you've got it all wrong. It's not sex that does those things. It's love. And that's not something you'll find around here."

She dropped his hand and stood up, retrieving a dressing gown from the end of the bed.

Sherlock watched her as she wrapped the gown around herself. She then checked the timer on her dresser and said, "Five more minutes. Do you want to get dressed now? We can talk some more while you're doing that."

"Do you have another client?" Sherlock asked, rising from the bed.

"No-one booked in. But the night's still young. Although I would like to get home at a reasonable hour tonight. Not that I'm meant to be complaining to you about my work..." she added sheepishly.

"I appreciate your honesty more than your lies," Sherlock stated, as he dressed himself. "Lying must be second nature to you by now," he added offhandedly.

Rose's heart sank a little at seeing herself through 'John's' eyes. She'd been called much, much worse by clients, but 'John' seemed to state things so matter-of-factly, so bluntly, that they stung a little more. His keen eyes seem to bore right into her soul sometimes.

She didn't say anything in return.

Sherlock glanced at Rose as she folded up the towel. He noticed her expression.

He lowered his voice and asked, "Do you hate your job?"

"Yes," she heard herself saying, "Sometimes," she quickly added as she saw 'John's' face fall ever so slightly. "Just the unattractive, sweaty fucks mostly." Rose smiled weakly at him.

Sherlock gave her a look of disapproval. "Then why do you do it? People are far more successful in their lives if they undertake work they enjoy..."

"Do you think this is my career choice? I'm studying..." then she stopped, realizing she'd revealed too much as she took in 'John's' triumphant grin.

"So you _are_ a student."

He looked quite jubilant, Rose thought, as if he'd won a prize.

"What are you studying?" he asked nonplussed, as if they had just met at a party.

Rose crossed her arms, already irritable that she had revealed this much.

"I can't talk to you anymore."

"What do you mean you can't?" Sherlock looked up as he put his shoes on. "Has the timer gone off?" He looked over to the dresser.

"No. If I'm at any time made to feel uncomfortable I can ask you to leave. And if you don't leave, Mark and the boys will escort you out."

"And _the boys?_ " Sherlock repeated, his tone one of ridicule.

But Rose ignored his remark. "This was made clear to you when you signed the entry book upon entering this establishment."

Sherlock frowned. She was reciting the same disclaimer Cynthia had read out to him downstairs. He didn't realize he had made her feel so uncomfortable that the 'leave the premises or else' clause had kicked in.

He stood up and slipped his jacket on while Rose held the door open for him. He reached into a pocket and pulled out his wallet. Flipping it open, he grabbed a twenty pound note and held it out to Rose.

"Are you still giving me a tip?"

"I found your conversation as enlightening as before," he said impassively.

Rose found herself speechless as she reached for the money. Sherlock brushed past her and silently and swiftly exited.


	3. He Gets Off On It

"Lovely to see you again, John. I thought we'd scared you away." Rose felt genuinely warmed by the sight of this refreshingly honest, clean and respectable man, despite his tendency to pry.

She escorted Sherlock upstairs, his expression largely unreadable due to the fact that he didn't feel as confident as he did two weeks prior.

Sherlock had left after the previous visit a bit despondent. He liked finding out information, and it was usually the bureaucracy of idiots who hindered his normal fact-finding missions, or the insecurities of the criminal element who wished to avoid being arrested as the reason for their reticence. But to be denied the pleasure of continually interrogating the woman with whom he had paid to have sex on the weak excuse that it was for her own personal safety was nothing short of an insult. What did they think he was going to do with the data? Stalk her? Why?

"No, I was away last week on a..." He paused momentarily on his next word: _case_ , instead finishing with, "...for work." They'd reached the top of the stairs where Sherlock paused in front of the earnings box. "But I also wasn't sure they'd let me see you again, after... what happened." _Your over-reaction,_ he thought petulantly.

"No, nothing dramatic like that," Rose answered. Banning 'John' from her list of clientele would've been a huge disappointment for her. "Not for something minor. You would've received the additional warning again downstairs though?"

Sherlock sighed. "Yes." He felt like a child being chastised for not playing nicely. _'Now Sherlock, don't call your friends 'idiots''. They are and they're not my friends._

Rose smiled at 'John's' contrite expression. "And I'm obliged to tell you once more, unless you want to say it to me yourself?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, then preceded to recite, "No kissing, no biting, no anal sex. No bodily fluids on your face or in your hair. _And no questions of a personal nature_." _And don't have fun,_ he sulked.

"Well done," Rose laughed, gesturing for Sherlock to continue along the landing.

Instead he reached for his wallet and handed Rose a fifty. He indicated the earnings box and said, "I don't know why we always walk past it. You always have to return to it after I pay you over there."

"Oh," Rose said, slightly flustered at having Sherlock change things up a bit. She accepted his payment and explained, "It's so we can negotiate in private. You know, behind the curtain."

"We've already negotiated terms," Sherlock said, and he turned and strode away from her. He called back, "Same again."

Rose deposited the money and hastened to the room. Sherlock had already removed his jacket.

"I assume you created the addendum just for me?" he asked, eyebrows raised.

"Yes I did."

"And my...preferences?" Sherlock challenged, as he unbuttoned his shirt cuffs.

"Oh," Rose said, taken aback at having to give an oral recount of a client's desires. "Let's see. Female, English, moderate intelligence—thank you by the way—and no unnecessarily slow movements, caresses, or fake sounds."

"Or expressions."

"Oh, yes."

"Aren't you getting undressed?" Sherlock asked as he sat down in the armchair to remove his shoes and socks.

"I've prepared ahead of time tonight—specific to your needs."

Rose opened her dressing gown to reveal her naked body as Sherlock glanced up at her.

"Oh," he remarked, mildly impressed that she had adapted her preparation to suit him. He stood up to undo his shirt buttons.

"We could try something a little different while you're undressing," Rose suggested, tentatively moving toward Sherlock. She was keen to treat him to a wide range of experiences, now that she knew that the sum total of his sexual accomplishments had been with her.

He eyed her suspiciously. Different? He didn't like different.

"Let's just try this—you may like it," she smiled slyly, unbuckling his belt for him, and glancing up into his eyes to check for a reaction.

_Doubt it._ Sherlock stared at her as if to say, _We've already been through this undressing thing and you know my thoughts already._

"Don't worry," she reassured him. "This is just a slight variation on something you already like."

Rose unzipped his trousers, allowing them to drop to the ground. She quickly shed her dressing gown, then bent down onto her knees, reaching into Sherlock's boxers. When Sherlock saw what was about to happen he had a sudden mental picture of Anderson, his most hated forensics specialist, and Sergeant Sally Donovan, a bully of a police detective. He had accused them of liaising in this very position. And once that image was in his mind, it would not leave.

"Uh. No," he said, stepping out of Rose's reach. "Not going to happen like that."

"But it's the same as the bed," she protested, standing up again. "It's just that you'll feel more dominant, which can be a real turn on."

"No, I don't want that. I don't need extra turning on. Just like before. I'm happy with that." Perhaps he should write a checklist? Sherlock liked lists and she may appreciate his foresight. And he could reel off a few extra copies. For next time.

Sherlock bent down to retrieve his trousers, placing them neatly on the armchair as Rose picked up her dressing gown and slid it on again, wrapping it around herself. Well she tried. Perhaps when he's feeling a bit more confident they could try something else. _He's only had sex twice after all,_ she reasoned.

Rose went over to sit in the middle of the bed while she waited for Sherlock to shed his underwear and join her. Before he removed them, however, he noticed Rose's gown.

"Why did you put that back on again?"

"It's a bit cold," she replied, shivering at the thought. "So I'll take it off at the last second if you don't mind—unless you want to try for the visual stimulation again?"

Sherlock noticed the very real physical evidence of Rose's reaction to the cold—goosebumps. "Oh, we didn't establish whether it was the thought of sex or the sight of your naked body that caused my arousal last time. Let's just leave it on for now...although you just flashed me your breasts, so that lessens the purity of the experiment. We'll just have to start again next week. No, leave it on if you're cold... why are you cold? Isn't the heating on?"

"I don't think it's working properly," she replied, glancing up at the outlet in the ceiling.

Sherlock, clad only in boxers, stepped up onto the bed and peered up to the ceiling to examine the vent. He couldn't stand not knowing the reason why things were amiss. A mystery to be solved!

"Um, John," Rose said nervously. Surely she couldn't get in trouble with Cynthia for her client standing on the bed. Could be a new sexual position.

"No, I think something's jammed in there," Sherlock muttered. Then he glanced about the room. _May as well fix this while I'm here,_ he thought. "Do you have a long thin instrument, like a chisel, metal ruler, or flathead screwdriver?"

Sherlock looked over to the basket full of oddly-shaped objects.

Rose followed his gaze to the basket that held dildos, vibrators, anal intruders and handcuffs.

"No," she said firmly. "Not in this room. Look, John, just leave it. There're people to fix these things..."

"Looks like its been jammed for ages," he tutted.

"Just leave it."

"But you're cold," he responded, stepping down off the bed. "Don't you have anything warmer to wear... over the top bit?" Sherlock surveyed the room, frowning as he did so. "Where do you store your clothes?"

"Not here."

"Where then?"

Rose raised her eyebrows at him, her mouth drawn in a thin line.

"Too personal?" he guessed.

"Yes."

"Here, wear my shirt," Sherlock insisted, grabbing it from the chair.

"Your shirt? Look, I'll be fine once we get started," Rose protested. But Sherlock held out the shirt for her until she climbed off the bed and dropped her robe once more and turned her back on him. Sherlock wrapped it around her, and while she slid her arms into the sleeves, Sherlock gently turned her to face him and started fastening some of the buttons.

"You don't need all of them done up," he said softly. He surveyed her briefly before remarking, "Oh, I always roll my sleeves up when I'm working," then he set about rolling up both sleeves for her while Rose puzzled over him. _He cares_ , she thought. _He genuinely cares about my comfort._

"There. Warm on top, and still..." he waved his hand at her lower half, "...accessible." He chuckled at his own ingenuity, then slid off his underwear and sat back on the bed, scanning Rose from head to toe. A broad grin slowly spread across his face.

"You're very practical," Rose commented, feeling a bit embarrassed at his concern for her wellbeing.

"Simple solutions to simple problems."

Rose returned his smile, then climbed onto the bed to straddle Sherlock. He automatically put his hands to her hips.

"Looks like you got ready all by yourself," Rose whispered, leaning over to the bedside table to grab the condom packet.

_Dammit, missed it again,_ Sherlock thought.

He was disappointed at not having noticed what it was that had stimulated a subconscious arousal in him. _Expectation of sex now that he knew what it felt like? The visual image of Rose? Need more data...oh...favourite bit. Hang on..._

Rose was making her way down his torso, lightly kissing him here and there and waiting for his impatient protests. When instead she heard a sigh of satisfaction, she continued downwards to give Sherlock his regular optional extra.

Sex continued on in the same fashion, with the added novelty of Sherlock sitting up when Rose was still on top of him and helping to lift off his shirt. Immediately afterward there was a slightly nerve-wracking moment when Rose thought he was about to kiss her, but she was able to distract him by kissing his nipples, and flicking her tongue over them until he groaned.

They continued on according to Sherlock's directions: Rose on top for a bit, then Sherlock to drive it home, so to speak. Once Sherlock had climaxed and collapsed on top of her, Rose put her arms around his neck, and held him there briefly, feeling him breathing heavily into her neck. Then she felt slightly panicky at the odd turn on that that moment gave her, and she let him go. Sherlock didn't seem to notice anything out of the ordinary about that moment though.

He lay back and stared at the ceiling, one arm loosely about his chest, and the other under his head. Rose turned to him, ready for another engaging conversation.

"So where did your work take you last week? You said you went away?"

"Dartmoor," Sherlock replied.

"I've never been there. What's it like?"

Images of south Devon's tors, bogs and grassy hills covered in a thick hallucinogenic gas came to mind. He replied, "Bleak. Foggy."

Rose was genuinely interested to know what this unique man did for a living. "What sort of work were you doing?"

Sherlock turned his head to meet Rose's inquisitive gaze. "Looking for a wild dog that was menacing the area."

"Really?" Rose asked skeptically. "You don't seem like the outdoorsy, wildlife warrior type."

Sherlock smiled to himself, as he relived the memory of the hound from hell, pausing a moment to revel in his brilliance yet again.

"My turn for a question," he said, changing the subject.

"Think you can manage to keep it general?" Rose challenged.

"Well, it's in this room, which is only used for the purposes of sex." He was enjoying this: a chance for a discovery at last.

"What is?" Rose queried.

"That cupboard," said Sherlock, indicating the door behind Rose. "It looks like it doesn't close properly. What's in it?"

"Oh, these," said Rose rising from the bed and opening the closet door. "Well, this is the Fantasy Suite, so these are costumes, for dress ups."

"For whom?" asked Sherlock, puzzled.

"For me, or whoever else uses this room. Maria, mostly. Have you met her?"

"Ah, no."

"Some clients like us to dress up," Rose commented, smiling at Sherlock. "Here, you might see something that takes your fancy."

"Why would I want you to get dressed? I need you undressed."

Rose smiled patiently at Sherlock. "Some guys have a fantasy of getting to fuck a nurse, or a playboy bunny or... parlour maid..." She briefly held out each costume bag as she recited the costumes packaged within.

"Where are there parlour maids these days for them to have fantasised about them?" Sherlock asked, narrowing his eyes.

"Actually, I don't know," Rose replied thoughtfully. "Weird, huh? ...Or a school girl, biker girl, or this one, my favourite, police constable."

"Police constable?" scoffed Sherlock.

"Yes, it's very popular. Would you like to see me try it on?"

The very idea repulsed Sherlock to no end. "Ah. No," he replied emphatically. "I've seen enough of those in real life, and there's no way any police constable is getting to suck my cock."

Rose laughed, taking in Sherlock's look of disgust for the costume, and then he started laughing, a closed mouth, wide grin, rumbling sort of laugh.

"No police constables then," Rose stated, grinning, closing the closet with an extra shove so that it stayed closed this time. She was a little disappointed that Sherlock didn't see anything he fancied. She would've looked forward to dressing up a bit and seeing him come undone. She glanced at her timer on the dresser. When she turned around to Sherlock, he was regarding her with a slight look of dejection.

"How much longer?" he asked.

"Four minutes. Should we get dressed?"

Sherlock sighed and sat up. He cleaned himself up first, then slowly rose and grabbed his underwear. Of course Rose was already as dressed as she was going to be once she'd slipped on her dressing gown.

He would've preferred the evening to continue on in this fashion. He was enjoying picking at the fabric of life in the sex lane. Now some other lucky bastard was going to have the pleasure of Shelley's company, and this next guy probably wouldn't appreciate the candor of her conversation.

"Any more clients tonight?" Sherlock asked, hoping that wasn't one of the personal questions he was banned from asking.

"No, you're my only client on Tuesday nights," she replied, smiling shyly, which momentarily surprised Sherlock.

"Oh, so last week...?"

Rose shrugged non-commitedly.

"Oh. Sorry," he said earnestly as he pulled his shirt on.

"Why are you sorry?"

"Because you missed out on the income."

"Oh, I'm fine," Rose replied dismissively. "There was Tuesday afternoon, and Thursdays and Saturdays are always busy."

Sherlock was silent as he efficiently buttoned his shirt, then he posed the question, "Am I allowed to ask what other nights you work, or is that too personal?"

Rose felt flattered by his interest. "No, that's fine," she answered cooly. "As you're a regular client you may need to make an appointment for another time, so that's a valid question."

"So?" he prompted, glancing over at her before turning to retrieve his trousers from the armchair.

"Just Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays."

Sherlock absorbed that information, not really sure what he was going to do with it. Although he did wonder what Shelley did on the other nights of the week. And then another idea popped into his head. A small seed of an idea. "What about call-outs?" he probed.

"To private houses and hotels?" Rose asked dubiously.

"Yes."

"No, we don't do those. You'll want an escort agency. This is Cynthia and Mark's massage parlour and we sometimes stay over with our clients."

Sherlock smiled inwardly. Of course. He pulled on his jacket and stated in some amusement, "Because brothels are illegal."

"Yes. So in no way is this a brothel," she reiterated, smiling mischievously at Sherlock.

Sherlock cleared his throat, his idea coming to the fore. He thrust his hands into his trouser pockets and ventured, "If I was to ask if you'll..."

"No," she answered, cutting him off.

"I haven't finished yet."

"You want to ask if I'll come to your place. No. I don't do that. I don't consider a client's house or hotel room a safe environment. There are plenty of escorts around though. Try those."

Sherlock frowned. "But I don't want anybody else." He couldn't imagine any other option. When you ordered fish and chips you go to the Marylebone Road; when you need your suits dry-cleaned, you'd take them to the Clay Street Dry Cleaners around the block, and when you want to get laid, you make an appointment with Shelley. That's the way the world turned. At least that's the way _his_ world turned.

At that moment Rose's timer gave two almost inaudible beeps. So no sirens then. Sherlock sighed, then reached into his jacket for his wallet.

"I'm sorry, John. That's the way I work."

Sherlock fished out a twenty pound note, and thanked the sex worker as he handed her the money.

"Thanks for the tip, once again," Rose replied.

"Are your other clients tipping you generously now that you've given up those annoying comments you make during sex?"

Rose remained composed despite the urge to laugh hysterically at Sherlock. "Some clients like it."

"Why?" Sherlock asked through narrow eyes.

"Because it makes them feel good about themselves."

"But you're not very convincing."

"That's a matter of opinion."

Sherlock regarded her for a moment, thinking that she was delusional and that most of her clients were most likely idiots.

"Will I see you next week?" Rose asked, changing the subject.

"I think so," Sherlock replied. He regarded Rose curiously, for he thought he noticed a hint of hope in her face. He smiled wanly. "Goodbye, Shelley."

"See you next time, John."


	4. Have You Got Any Cash?

"How could you spend over three hundred pounds in as many weeks? You never buy groceries, rarely buy clothes. Are you...you...you're not..." John peered closely at Sherlock's eyes. "Using?"

"Shut up! Of course not! I don't even smoke any more. You must've been mistaken about the balance," Sherlock countered from the comfort of his armchair.

John dumped the bills down back on the side table next to his chair, crossed his arms and turned his head to the side, mystified.

"Well all I know is, when I used your card at the chip and pin machine there was over three hundred quid, and that was after my purchases. Henry Knight paid for all our expenses in Dartmoor, so..."

"You were mistaken about the balance," Sherlock stated matter-of-factly and trying to remain disinterested by staring at the screen of his laptop.

John was pretty miffed. All of his last pay cheque went into refitting the kitchen window which blew out as a result of one of Sherlock's wayward experiments. They had bills, piles of those, and an empty larder.

"Any cash in your wallet?" John stood up suddenly and strode over to the table before Sherlock had a chance to even rise from his chair. An attempt to make a dash for his wallet now would seem too obvious and guilt-ridden.

Resigning to his fate, Sherlock sank back into his chair.

"One hundred quid! You've got one hundred quid in here! Right, I'm taking fifty of it to pay for this food."

"Food?" Sherlock said, incredulously.

"Yes! How else do you think we're going to eat? And bog rolls. Need more of that."

And grabbing his jacket, he left Sherlock in a world of turmoil. Sherlock had already been contemplating how he could borrow a few extra quid off John in order to pay for a cab over to the brothel in Lyceum Street. But now, he didn't even have enough money to pay for the sex anyway. The week had gone way too slowly for him, and he'd been so looking forward to Tuesday night.

He stood up and started pacing, feeling frustrated. He was just going to have to accept some of those tedious cases that had come in over the last few weeks. He was never interested in cases for the money. It was all about the work. But now he needed cash. How to get more cash.

"Woo hoo!" came a voice from the landing.

"Ah, Mrs Hudson, how lovely you're looking this evening!"

* * *

"Everything okay?" Rose asked as they arrived at the top of the landing. Sherlock appeared unusually forlorn.

"I can't tip you tonight," he said as he handed over two twenties and a tenner.

Rose's expression softened. "Um, that's okay. You don't always have to tip," she said as she shoved the notes into an envelope. "You're tipping me for my conversation anyway. You won't miss out on sex."

Alarm bells sounded in Sherlock's head. No, sex still did not alarm him; the prospect of his evening with Shelley not going exactly as it usually did was a cause for concern. "I enjoy your conversation," he stated simply.

Rose's heart quickened, a response she was fully aware of. "And we'll still have it," she replied reassuringly gesturing along the landing for Sherlock to continue walking. "I'm not going to _not_ talk to you."

"Good," Sherlock said, shrugging off his jacket before he ducked behind the curtain. A weight had lifted from his shoulders. He had gone to great pains to acquire the rest of the money for this evening's liaison. There had to be a light at the end of the tunnel, especially when that tunnel consisted of sitting through afternoon tea with Mrs Hudson and Mrs Turner from next door.

Sherlock proceeded to unbutton his shirt and noticed the ambient temperature of the room. "The heating appears to be working?"

"Yes, it was a piece of plastic from the old outlet cover they said," Rose replied as she closed the bedroom door. "Good spotting. Although the cold did help my nipples become erect without having anyone touch them," she added, smiling. She shed her gown and moved over to the bed as Sherlock continued undressing.

"Oh, signs of arousal?" Sherlock asked.

"Yes."

"Can't fake the other signs though," Sherlock murmured, unbuttoning his shirt.

"Apparently not. I can't say that anyone but you has noticed though."

_And welcome to the world of police investigations. 'Oh Sherlock, how did you know?', 'I didn't know, I noticed.' Morons._

He glanced at Rose waiting for him on the bed, and reflected on his first visit when she had fabricated her arousal. He remarked, "I really don't know why you bother with all of the other stuff. It's supposed to be about the client getting off isn't it?"

Sherlock's direct questions always continued to amuse Rose. She replied, "And their ability to stimulate me, or so they think, helps them to do that."

"Why?"

"Everyone likes to think they're good in the sack."

"Why do they like to think that?"

Rose was getting quite a handle on the type of man her client was revealing to be through his innocent questions. It was almost like he was from an alien race. "Human nature I guess," she replied.

"How is it measured?" he asked pointedly.

Rose thought she'd missed something. "How is what measured?"

"How good you are," he answered. Something to store away in his Mind Palace. Whenever there is a ranking, whenever there is a chance to prove yourself better than someone, Sherlock would be there. This type of information was invaluable, and he was obtaining it from an expert in the field.

Sherlock made his way over to the bed now that he was naked, and semi aroused. He lay down next to Rose, who was still sitting up, and he waited expectantly for her response.

"How good you are is determined by how much pleasure you give to your sexual partner."

Sherlock pondered this point. _Shelley fakes arousal, client feels confident, comes back again, so to speak. Oh, come. Yes, how funny._ "So...therefore clients like to see you getting off so they feel good about themselves," Sherlock concluded with distaste.

Sherlock's interest and never-ending quest for information was all rather entertaining for Rose. She wondered what he thought about his own sexual prowess at this stage. "Wouldn't you like to know if you were any good?" she asked.

 _Eventually_ , he thought. _And I will be good. Yes, I will. But for now..._ "Well clearly I'm not because you're not aroused at all."

"I won't let myself be. It's not professional."

She moved closer to Sherlock's side when he didn't respond, and decided that it was time to start.

"Same again?"

Sherlock nodded.

It was exactly the same, according to Sherlock's specifications, although this time he felt slightly self-conscious knowing he was the only one getting off. It was an odd feeling. The first time he'd had sex he didn't care. It was like masturbation using another person's body instead of his hand. But now he was acutely aware that there was somebody else involved, and they weren't having as good a time as he was.

He still found Rose completely encouraging though, and had no trouble climaxing once again.

"Don't you want to enjoy yourself?" Sherlock asked, panting, continuing the conversation as if the last few minutes hadn't happened.

Rose looked at him and raised her eyebrows.

"Personal?" he asked.

"Yes. A bit." She left the bed and began putting her dressing gown on. She wasn't sure how to approach the subject again, but her client seemed quite open to talking about all manner of things. "Speaking of personal...I was thinking about your request..."

"My request?" Sherlock asked, puzzled.

"About coming to your place."

"Oh," Sherlock remarked. He pulled himself to a semi-sitting up position, fully focused. Things just got rather interesting.

Rose breathed out, still wondering if she should still do this. She had been in two minds about it for the past week, and once she had made up her mind, she had hoped 'John' would make an appointment so they could discuss it. It really would get her out of a tight spot. She ventured, "How much would you give me? I wouldn't want to go all that way for any less time than an hour."

Sherlock's heart skipped a beat. There was a slim chance he may actually get his own way. He thought for a moment. "It would have to be financially beneficial to both of us. If I booked you for an hour here, what's that? Two hundred?"

"Yes, plus the twenty-five pound door fee."

"And how much of the two hundred would you get to keep?"

"I'm not allowed to say."

Sherlock tutted in annoyance. "Then how am I supposed to give you a figure worth your while? Obviously if you come to my house, we've dispensed with the middle man and you'll get to keep the full amount."

He had hoped Shelley would just go that extra step and branch out on her own.

Excitement coursed through Rose's body. _Make the offer, Rose_ , she told herself. _You'll get to keep it all to yourself, just for one hour's work._ "How about two hundred as a flat fee?" she asked hesitantly. "You wouldn't have to pay a door fee or a taxi fare?"

"Two hundred pounds," Sherlock thought to himself. He'd have Rose's company for an entire hour in the comfort of his own flat. They could have sex at least twice in that time. But he could barely scrape together seventy-five for today. Surely he could earn two hundreds pounds by next week, but he'd never had to chase his own clients for payment before. He never really cared if they paid or not. John did though. Yet he couldn't involve John in chasing payment. John would then question exactly where that money went if it disappeared in an instant.

"Two hundred," he repeated.

"We'd have to negotiate other conditions though," Rose said hurriedly. "For my own safety and your privacy of course. Then there's the cancellation fee. If I come round and for some reason you can't keep my appointment, you have to at least pay fifty pounds for my trouble. They call it a cab fare."

"That's fine," Sherlock said finally. His stomach made an involuntary twist, which surprised him. Was it nervous excitement? He sat up and began clean up operations.

Rose had crossed her arms and stood with her back to him facing the window and glancing through the narrow slits in the curtain to the street outside.

"We can't let them know, downstairs," she said in a low voice. "I'll be let go...or worse," she added, her voice barely audible.

"You can count on my discretion," Sherlock reassured her, rising from the bed. "So...when?"

"Obviously not Tuesday, Thursday or Saturday nights."

"Oh, of course," Sherlock thought. Tuesdays would've been best as John was definitely out. Friday night he was sometimes out on a date, Saturday was more likely, but both nights were not guaranteed. Although...

"What about in the late afternoon one day?" he proposed. John worked late some days, so that could work.

"Really? You won't mind me showing up to your place in daylight?"

"All kinds of people show up to my place during the day," Sherlock replied, dressing as he spoke.

"Okay. Well," Rose began, thinking about her schedule. "I have something on until three on Wednesday, so... where do you live? It will depend on how far I have to travel."

"Not far from here. Baker Street."

"Oh good!" she said, her face brightening. "That's not far from...the tube. So how about 4pm Wednesday?"

Sherlock smiled broadly. It was happening. "Excellent," he said, pulling on his jacket and moving toward the door.

Rose opened it for him and said in a lower voice, "So you won't be here next Tuesday night then?"

Sherlock smiled, his eyes twinkling as he shook his head.

"Address?" she asked.

"221B Baker Street. Oh!" Sherlock had a sudden thought. "You'll be dressed..."

"In normal, everyday clothes, don't worry," she said, laughing.

"Oh, good."

"Goodbye, John. See you next time," Rose said at normal volume, opening the door for him.

"Bye, Shelley."


	5. The World's Only Consulting Detective

Sherlock eyed the bank transactions greedily. He scanned his screen, muttering, "Deposit, deposit...good."

John had been surprised when Sherlock had ruthlessly insisted to a new client that they pay him a deposit before he even took their case and negotiated payment in full within three days of solving it. He hadn't let his client know that he had already solved their case while speaking to them. He'd waited twenty-four hours to give the illusion of having done some research before giving them the information, then promptly emailed them an invoice.

"Simple business economics, John," he had commented when John complained. "I have to remain competitive."

"With who? You're the world's only consulting detective, according to you!"

And John was completely stunned when he saw Sherlock 'tidying up' their flat.

"What's happening? Is the Queen coming to visit?" he asked, eyeing Sherlock as he shuffled papers around on his desk.

"Establishing a workflow. In-tray, out-tray," Sherlock had replied, gesturing to items on the living room table, "files, folders..."

"Uh, yeah, I know what these things are. The question is, why do you? What's going on Sherlock? I can even see the surface of the dining room table now that you've moved your experiments to the sideboard."

"Efficiency in my physical work environment, leads to efficiency in my mental capabilities," Sherlock stated, holding a piece of paper and frantically turning this way and that until he spied the folder he needed.

"Right, well, I'll leave you to it then. I'm off to work. You going out again tonight?"

"Hmm? No," said Sherlock, not looking up.

"Oh. Case finished then?"

Sherlock was momentarily confused. "Case?"

"The case you said you were working on the last few Tuesday nights when you had to go visit that mysterious government department, only open in the evenings," John stated in disbelief.

The penny dropped. "Ah. Yes. All done, John," Sherlock lied, as he avoided making eye contact with his flatmate.

"Good. Well goodnight then."

"Night, John."

Sherlock fidgeted nervously. He was seated in his armchair by the fire, plucking at the strings of his violin. The flat was tidy, John was at work again, it was—he looked at his watch—a quarter to four. Wednesday had finally arrived. He'd showered and shaved and was back in his shirt and trousers, but no jacket.

His phone rang.

"Detective Inspector..." Sherlock said, speaking into the phone and standing up. "No...yes...text me the details...I'll be there tomorrow... no, morning."

He listened for a bit longer as the details of a new case were narrated to him by the Scotland Yard detective. He half listened as the sound of footsteps on the stairs gave him pause. He looked on in horror as John strolled through the door.

"Before you ask: two cases of influenza, a Pap smear, gout, Mrs Turner's grandson with a piece of Lego in his ear, a viral infection of the..."

John stopped talking, taking in Sherlock's expression.

"I'll hear the rest of the details tomorrow, Lestrade," Sherlock muttered into the phone before ending the call. "Why are you here?" Sherlock asked in a panic.

"I live here," John answered, shaking his head. "What was that?" he asked, indicating Sherlock's phone with his eyes. "Another one of those Whitechapel murders?"

"What? Oh, dunno...why are you home now? Your shift finishes at 6pm Wednesdays!" Sherlock asked, incredulous.

"I told you," John stated, looking slightly annoyed at his flatmate who yet again demonstrated his inability to retain any information John gave him. He walked over to the kitchen and filled the kettle while saying, "I have to take Stephanie's early shift tomorrow morning, so I got to finish early today... tea?"

"No! You have to go!"

"What?" John asked in mild amusement.

"I've got a client coming. She..." He thought quickly, "...gets overwhelmed at ... too many people..." he was faltering, "...looking at her..."

John gave Sherlock a look of confusion as the sound of Sherlock's doorbell pierced the air.

"I'll get it!" Mrs Hudson called out.

Sherlock's stomach dropped a few centimetres. This is turning into a three ringed circus, he thought.

Looking at Sherlock suspiciously, John suggested, "I'll just...go down and have tea with Mrs Hudson then."

Sherlock began breathing again. "That would be best. Perhaps for about an hour...and a half," he said. What's the worst that could happen? John will just pass her on the stairs, say hello, maybe make a silly flirtatious comment and that would be all. She knew Sherlock had a flatmate...John.

_John!_

_He_ was 'John'!

Sherlock had forgotten to tell Shelley his real name! In a panic, he walked over to the living room door, and stopped on the landing as voices floated up to him.

"Yes, I'm John. John Watson," he heard John say. Probably extending his hand or something, thought Sherlock.

"I...have an appointment?" he heard Shelley say. She was speaking carefully and Sherlock noted the confused tone in her question.

"Ah, yes. With Sherlock," John replied pleasantly. "I'll just take you up."

Sherlock quickly stepped back into the living room. Stand up? Sit down? Lean on the mantelpiece nonchalantly? He finally decided on putting the kettle on as John and Rose entered the room.

"Ah, Sherlock?" John called, not immediately seeing Sherlock around the corner.

"Yes?" Sherlock tried to stroll out casually, his back awkwardly stiff due to the stress of the situation.

"Your...client? I'm sorry, what was your name?" John turned to address Rose.

"Shelley."

Rose looked over at Sherlock, detecting a mild panic-stricken look behind his usually sparkling grey eyes.

"Hello," she said shyly, not exactly sure what was going on. "Sherlock?"

Sherlock remained rigid, then shifted his eyes to John, willing him to leave.

"Ah, Shelley asked for me, so...did you want me to stay?" John quizzed Sherlock. He was also confused as to why Sherlock's client had said to Mrs Hudson that she wanted to see 'John.' "I'm Sherlock's colleague," John explained to Rose, "but I guess you knew that? I can just sit quietly at the back of the room and take notes if you like," he said reassuringly.

Rosie's eyes widened and she stared at Sherlock.

The bastard! That's why he was so keen to fuck her in his flat. He wanted his flatmate to watch and... take notes?

"I'm not sure exactly what we've negotiated here," she began, carefully choosing her words. She didn't want to make them both angry, although she was standing near the door. She could always make a run for it.

At last Sherlock came to his senses, formulated a half-assed plan in his mind and found his voice. He cleared his throat first.

"Ah, Shelley's a student, John. She's come to interview me about my cases for a ...school..ah...university report. There's no need for you to take notes, John. Shelley will be doing all the writing." He turned to Rose, "Sorry, it's a bit crowded in here. John came home from work unexpectedly. Do have a seat."

Sherlock was relieved to observe a look of realisation cross Rose's face, and without missing a beat she said, "Um, yes. Thanks for seeing me."

"Sherlock's cases? Excellent. Have you read my blog?" John asked, taking a seat next to Rose as she sat down on the couch. "Sherlock, were you putting the kettle on?"

Sherlock clenched his jaw as Rose looked up at him and said, "Tea. White with one thanks."

"Ah, yes," said John, rubbing his hands together. "Where should we start. Was there anything specific? What's your major exactly?"

From the kitchen Sherlock heard Rose say, "Psychology."

 _She's on the ball_ , he thought. He fussed about with the tea things, his mind in a fervour, trying to come up with an idea, any idea, to get John to leave. Immediately.

Laughter emanated from the living room. Sherlock had nothing. With a sinking heart he carried the tea tray into the living room.

Rose had her bag open, and had a notepad on her lap, and she was scribbling away.

"Sherlock, what was the occupation of the murderer in the aluminium crutch?" John asked him.

"Chef," Sherlock replied sullenly.

"There you go," John said to Rose. "Could be the physical demands of the job affecting his mental state. Good point."

Sherlock frowned. John poured the tea as Rose asked pointed and intelligent questions about the perpetrators of the crimes of many of Sherlock's cases that John could recall. Sherlock sat back in a chair he had pulled over from the living room table and answered John in monosyllables whenever he posed questions to him for clarification. Rose, though, directed all her questions to John. It seemed as if, in this weird parallel universe, that she was actually a university student taking notes for an assignment on the psyche of the criminal mind.

Presently there came two almost inaudible beeps from the confines of Rose's bag. Sherlock's heart fell and he glanced at his watch.

"Oh, my train," commented Rose, closing up her notepad. "Thanks ever so much. That was wonderful!" she remarked, looking from John to Sherlock.

Sherlock stood up when she did, his mind reeling at what he had just let happen—for an hour.

"Yes, well, if there's anything else you need, just give us a call," John said, also rising from the couch.

"I'll walk you out," Sherlock said quickly, resulting in John giving him a questioning look.

Sherlock ignored his flatmate, and grabbed his jacket from the back of his armchair.

John picked up the tea tray and addressed their visitor. "Lovely to meet you, Shelley," he said. "And if you're ever interested any other aspect of the medical profession..."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and tutted at John's attempt at a flirtatious smile. The detective followed Rose downstairs in silence, then stepped out onto Baker Street with her, letting the external door click shut behind him.

Rose started laughing, almost doubling over.

"Oh my sweet Lord!" she said finally, wiping away tears. "I will never forget that as long as I live!"

Sherlock wasn't impressed, and neither would he forget that. For as long as he lived.

"I'm sorry," she said, gently touching his sleeve. "That was so awkward."

Sherlock let out a sigh in frustration. "Yes, well, he wasn't meant to be home."

"And...does't he know about you and..." Rose asked quizzically.

"John's fairly conservative. He likes to date first, and have sex much later. Much, much, later. I'm sorry you had to sit through that... conversation."

Sherlock was internally seething. His well-meaning flatmate, ever eager to help on a case, had fucked up his chance for his weekly round of sex. Sherlock would never admit to being sexually frustrated, but he was certainly something right now.

"Oh, but...that was so interesting! What an amazing life you have together!" she exclaimed, her hand still resting on Sherlock's arm.

There it is again, he sighed, rolling his eyes in his mind. "We're not together," he remarked, his voice flat and his spirits low.

She rubbed his arm again. "Well I really do have to catch a train."

"Oh," Sherlock said in realisation, reaching into his jacket. _All this money for a tea party of three. How wonderful_ , he thought, his head full of sarcasm.

"No, I didn't mean that," Rose said, removing her arm. "I don't want payment."

"But the cancellation fee. And anyway, I took up an hour of your time," Sherlock protested.

"And so did I. Consulting Detective. Well, that's a new one! I could actually use all the notes I took for a paper later this year. So let's call it even."

Sherlock's head reeled at her words. "You really are a psychology student?"

"Yes! Mature age student...so, well now you know," Rose replied resignedly. "In fact you're only one of three people who know about both sides of me...so..."

"I can keep a secret."

She gave a faint smile. "Thank you."

Rose stepped closer to Sherlock, then reached up and gently caressed his cheek. "We'll reschedule. Okay? Come see me in Lyceum Street Thursday or Saturday." Then she dropped her hand, stepping back when Sherlock nodded faintly. "Well, goodbye John...I mean, Sherlock," she said, turning to leave.

"Bye Rose."

Rose stopped. "How did you...?"

One corner of Sherlock's mouth quirked into a smile. "Consulting Detective, remember."

Rose furrowed her brow in confusion.

"It was written on the cover of your notepad," Sherlock said simply.

Rose managed a smile in appreciation, then turned to walk down the street toward the tube station. As Sherlock spun on his heels to re-enter the flat, John closed the small slit in the curtain he had been watching from. He had no idea what he had just witnessed.

 


	6. When the Police Are Out of Their Depth

Sherlock watched the front door with a mixture of fascination and impatience. He had been waiting for a chance to enter the Lyceum Street brothel for a good ten minutes, hoping for a gap in between clients entering and exiting. He thought 8pm was an early enough time— _aren't people still at home eating their corned beef—_ but he hadn't countered on the late workers, leaving their places of employment, probably about 7pm, stopping by the shops to pick up a bag of carrots for their wives, calling by a brothel for a quick shag before returning home to their loving family.

Sherlock gave up his covert operation and strode over to the door. He rang the doorbell, and was surprised to find that a young man answered instead of either Cynthia or Mark, the owners. Sherlock stepped inside the entranceway, paid his twenty-five pound door fee, then asked if he could have a quick word with Shelley as he followed the man into the parlour.

"A quick word?" the man repeated with a furrowed brow. A quick word was apparently not on the list of services to request, unless 'quick word' was a euphemism for something else.

Sherlock cleared his throat and glanced around. The parlour was crowded this evening. He was glad his first visit to the brothel had been on a relatively quiet Tuesday, otherwise he may never have returned. Tonight, Thursday night, was positively crawling with people, and a handful of them were only half-dressed.

"With Shelley, yes," he answered in a low voice, suddenly conscious of his audience.

"She's with a gentleman."

The young man gestured to the lounge chairs, presumably inviting Sherlock to sit on one, and made to disappear into the back room.

"If you could just let her know I'm here, once she's, ah, done," the detective said, causing the man to pause mid-stride, "that would be great."

Sherlock forced a tiny smile onto his face, and attempted to remain oblivious to the laughter and inane conversation that filled the room. It grated on him of course, as did the feel of multiple sets of eyes that now may be fixed upon him.

"And you are?" The sarcastic tone and raised eyebrows just screamed indifference.

"John."

"John?"

"Yes."

The young man gave Sherlock the once over, then disappeared into the private area. Sherlock removed himself from the parlour and stood in the stairwell, away from prying eyes.

"John, my love, nice to see you." It was Cynthia, the owner. "Shelley's just busy right now. Why don't you come back at eleven?" The woman spoke warmly, with just an underlying hint of urgency, as if suspecting that Sherlock could potentially make trouble for one of her 'girls.'

Sherlock heaved a sigh and nodded imperceptibly. It looked like his efforts to see Shelley were going to be thwarted. He was curious that it was Cynthia who had approached him and not Mark. Perhaps she decided he needed a woman's touch to appease the beast within, or perhaps Mark was away, hence the substitute muscle this evening in the form of the annoying young man.

"Ooh, excuse me, love," Cynthia bid him, lightly touching his arm. It appeared that the phone was ringing, and as he hadn't yet been escorted from the premises, Sherlock remained where he stood when the ex-prostitute hastened away.

Loud thuds on the stairs prompted him to look up. A middle-aged gentleman with greying temples tromped downstairs. He wore a smart business suit, and was glancing at his watch as he descended. Wife and mistress, Sherlock concluded. Cheating on both with a prostitute. High-paying job. Little time for maintaining a relationship. The mistress obviously drains him emotionally as well. But he's late for dinner, and one he knows won't end in bed, therefore the date is with his wife and possibly her parents too, hence the quick detour to a North London brothel.

Sherlock hoped that this man had been Shelley's client, just so she would now be available to see him. _Rose_ , he thought, correcting himself. Her name is _Rose_.

Sherlock glanced around. Nobody was paying any attention to him. With that in mind, he rounded the banister and swiftly ascended to the next floor. He crossed the landing and stood hesitating in front of the curtain that screened off the Fantasy Suite from the rest of the corridor.

He was about to part the curtain when it was suddenly brushed aside.

"Oh!" exclaimed Rose when she spied Sherlock. "Crap, John... I mean, Sherlock. What are you doing here?"

Rose grasped Sherlock's arm and led him away from the suite with a quick glance toward the stairwell.

"Nobody was watching," Sherlock replied, "so I thought I'd—"

"That's not good for security," Rose muttered as she dragged Sherlock along by the hand.

They stopped in front of the door to another bedroom.

"I haven't got long," Rose whispered. "But I have to shower."

Rose pressed a series of numbers on a keypad above the door handle.

"Come in," she said, when Sherlock hesitated.

Sherlock entered the room after her, taking in the details of this much larger bedroom. There were a couple of lockers, plus three dressing tables. Overnight bags lay haphazardly on the bed and dresses on hangers adorned the walls. Sherlock recognised the bag Rose had carried around to his flat the day before.

"This is where we keep our stuff. Shower's this way."

"Bringing me in here can't be good for security either," Sherlock remarked dryly.

He glanced up at a whiteboard that had a list of female names along one side with days and times listed next to each one. He narrowed his eyes at a boxed off section in the bottom right-hand corner that didn't seem to belong to any worker in particular.

_This Months Orgasm Tally!_

Rose was rummaging through a sports bag before she entered the ensuite.

"Come in," she called back to Sherlock who was still scrutinising the tally marks on the whiteboard. "I haven't got much time, so you'll have to talk to me while I shower. I've only got a fifteen minute break."

Sherlock made a mental note to ask Rose about the tally later. He was curious as to whether they were keeping count of the number of times a client climaxed (surely that was every time?) or the sex workers themselves. More likely the latter. The tally seemed rather low. He also wondered if any of the markings belonged to Rose.

He paused before entering the bathroom and added an apostrophe between the word _Month_ and the letter 's.'

Rose had turned on the shower and was testing the water temperature when Sherlock entered. She peeled off each of her flimsy garments and handed them to Sherlock.

"Can you just drop them onto the floor behind you? So how are you?" she asked, entering the shower stall and shutting the door behind her.

"Just wanted to make another time with you," Sherlock shouted over the water.

"What? Oh! Sherlock," she said, opening the door and sticking her head out. "Sorry, I need a costume for my next client. Can you be a love and fetch it for me? You know where they are. In our room."

 _Our room,_ thought Sherlock.

"The police constable uniform. And make sure you really push on that closet door to close it!"

Rose shut the shower door once more while Sherlock continued to stare in her direction for a few more seconds. Surely she was joking. He couldn't be seen wandering about a brothel fetching this and that.

He gave his head a tiny shake in resignation and left the ensuite. He couldn't talk to Rose while she was showering anyway. Crossing the dressing room floor he realised he would need the key code to get back in. Or could he figure it out?

He felt warmed by the unexpected mental challenge. It wouldn't hurt to take a quick look.

Sherlock opened the door to the corridor and bent down, narrowing his eyes at the keypad. The numbers one, two, three and four were all worn down more than the rest of the keys.

 _Oh for Christ's sake,_ he thought.

Quite confident that he now knew the sequence of numbers, Sherlock left the dressing room allowing the door to click shut behind him. He strode to the Fantasy Suite and ducked through the curtain. The door to the bedroom was closed and through it came the unmistakeable sound of two people copulating.

He dropped his head wearily and heaved out a sigh.

_Hang on... are they...?_

Yes, he thought. _A very big finish. Well done._

He left the area through the curtain once more and strode the length of the corridor and back again, raking an impatient hand through his curls. Now that the deed was done, it shouldn't take long for the prostitute and her client in the Fantasy Suite to vacate it. As another couple ascended the staircase, and Sherlock rolled his eyes and tutted at his misfortune.

"Oh. Hiya," said the sex worker as she brushed past Sherlock. "Lost, are ya?"

"No, I work here, apparently," Sherlock replied.

Her companion, a nervous bespectacled type, avoided making eye contact with Sherlock.

"Oh! The new security! Welcome, darlin'!" she called back as the pair of them hastened for another room at the end of the hallway.

"Security," Sherlock muttered to himself derisively.

Sherlock backed himself against one wall of the hallway and folded his arms in front of him.

 _Okay. Security, then_ , he decided, and he exhaled deeply.

To his right, the curtain of _his and Shelley's_ room parted, and _Mister Loud Orgasm_ strode toward Sherlock. The new Lyceum Street brothel first floor security detail narrowed his eyes at the punter, silently urging the man to keep moving.

This the latter did, almost tripping over his own feet in his bid to leave the first floor as swiftly as possible.

Sherlock resumed a casual position, then made moves toward the curtained-off suite, having lost patience with the sex worker who hadn't yet emerged. He confidently strode into the room, barely glancing at the woman who was busily straightening the sheets.

"Make sure you swap the towel out," he advised her.

He crossed the room and stopped in front of the closet.

"You what?" she said, looking up in surprise.

"The towel," he replied, turning his head toward her. He made a point of looking at the mattress. "You haven't swapped towels." He returned his gaze to the closet. As he opened the doors, he added, "It's unhygienic."

Behind him, the prostitute clucked her tongue and muttered under her breath. Sherlock skimmed the collection of costume bags until he spied the one he had been requested to fetch.

Police constable.

His insides roiled in disgust.

He grabbed the bag, closed the closet door, found it didn't stick, opened it again then really rammed it home til it stuck fast.

"And you'd better disinfect that," he said, nodding to a dubious-looking phallic device that lay forgotten on the bedroom rug. "We've had complaints."

Sherlock folded the costume bag over one arm and left the room. The key code of 1-2-3-4 gained him entry to the dressing room where he found Rose, completely naked, twisting her hair up into a bun in front of a dressing table.

Sherlock tried to avoid looking at her. It was one thing to view her nude form when he was just about to have sex with her, it was another thing entirely in this context. He reflected on that time, not too long ago, when another sex worker paraded herself in front of him with the express intent of getting a rise out of him and throwing him off his game. The Dominatrix, Irene Adler, had failed in her attempt to seduce him, but now Sherlock had gained experience with this woman currently in his company. These days he held a record of their sexual encounters in his Mind Palace database that could trigger a response at any inappropriate moment.

"Oh, thank you," Rose said, relieving Sherlock of the bag. She chuckled lightly. "Oh don't be so shy!" she said, continuing to laugh. "You've had sex with me remember? Four times now, I recall."

"Well, this is different. This is your personal... grooming time, or whatever."

"I've done the _grooming,_ " Rose responded, her tone light and teasing.

Sherlock continued to avert his gaze and studied the names on the whiteboard. He wondered how many of the workers used a pseudonym. Probably all of them.

"Oh, okay, then," Rose said, breaking the silence. "You want to organise my visit to your place again. So what day and time? You now know I have uni lectures."

The trouble with Sherlock's own work was that he never knew when a client would just show up. He could always lock his door and ignore the doorbell during his...session. But now to choose a day. Any day, probably. May as well start with the first day of the week then. "Monday morning?" he suggested.

"No. Sociology."

Sherlock tutted. "Tuesday midday?"

"Can you pass me the hat, please?" Rose asked him, pointing to the costume bag that now lay on a chair behind her. Rose was still undressed, but she was holding her hair on top of her head. "So... Tuesday..." she repeated, deep in thought.

Sherlock unzipped the bag and pulled out the police constable hat. Rose put it on.

"See?" she said, her eyes glinting with mischief, "I do this..." she pulled the hat off, and her hair tumbled down around her shoulders. "But usually it's the client who pulls it off me."

Sherlock shook his head. "All this just for sex."

Rose shrugged, piling her hair back up again.

"Now," she said, rummaging in the bag. She pulled out a white shirt. "Tuesday, midday, you said?"

"Around midday," Sherlock answered. _Are we still stuck on the same conversation?_ "Probably closer to eleven," he added.

"No, I have a lunch date on that day."

Sherlock sighed as he watched Rose pull on a very short black skirt. She tucked the white shirt into it. "Bullet proof vest?" she asked Sherlock, indicating the costume bag again.

"I don't think it really is," Sherlock deadpanned.

A tiny laugh escaped Rose before she donned the vest.

"Radio?" she prompted, holding out her hand.

Sherlock pulled out the accessories one by one and handed them to Rose. He continued to eye her "uniform" in distaste. Apart from the probably very impractical short skirt, she would look like a female member of the Metropolitan Police Constabulary to the untrained eye, he thought. And of course, Sherlock's eye was definitely trained.

Rose caught him scanning her from head to toe.

"See?" she said, "You like it now, don't you?"

"It's kind of disturbing," he answered.

Sherlock heard the door lock click. He immediately straightened up and folded his arms in front of him. He recognised the woman who entered as the prostitute he'd just encountered in the Fantasy Suite.

"Hey Lydia," Rose said, smiling at the woman via the reflection in the mirror.

"Should you be in here?" the woman, Lydia, asked, directing her question to Sherlock.

"He's just helping me with this," Rose replied. "Making sure it's authentic. He used to be a copper."

Sherlock gave Lydia a half-smile. Rose's excuse was quite pathetic, but it did help with his last minute decision to disguise himself as part of the brothel's new security "team." Lydia didn't seem to care. She disappeared into the bathroom without another word. Sherlock wondered how long he would be able to keep up his cover before he would be abruptly ejected from the premises. He suspected he would never be welcome again. It hardly registered as a problem with him now that he would have access to Rose's "services" from the comfort of his own flat. He fully intended never visiting this establishment again if he could help it.

"She won't be a minute," Rose told Sherlock in a voice barely above a whisper. "Can you wait a bit longer?"

Sherlock shrugged resignedly. His whole evening was devoid of purpose anyway.

Rose kept fiddling with her hair and her hat, and not a moment later, Lydia emerged from the bathroom.

"I need a fag," she said to no one in particular.

Once the door had clicked shut again, Rose told Sherlock that Lydia preferred to spend her break out the back smoking. Instead of having a shower between clients, she gave herself a quick wipe. Sherlock shuddered at the thought.

"So..." Rose continued, turning around to face Sherlock. "Tuesday's not a goer. How about Wednesday?"

Sherlock exhaled noisily.

"Look," he said. "I could have clients at any time. Some of them just walk in off the street. Theoretically I'm available every day, but I may have to cancel at the last minute. It could get quite expensive if I have to pay you fifty pounds just for the exercise."

"Well, that's only if I've gone to the trouble of showing up."

"Then you'll need to supply me with a phone number so I can contact you ahead of time. This is such a simple arrangement, I don't know why we have to over-complicate it."

Rose removed her WPC hat and ran her fingers through her hair. She appeared deep in thought.

"Okay, fine," she said eventually. "I'll give you my number."

Sherlock drew out his phone and punched in the phone number as Rose recited it to him.

"And you should give me yours," she added.

Sherlock pressed the call button on his phone. They could both detect something vibrating in Rose's bag.

"All done," Sherlock said, ending the call after two rings. "Just as long as you remember that your missed call at 8:26pm was me.

The door to the room suddenly opened and a woman with far too much make-up on, Sherlock thought, stuck her head in.

"Your 8:30 cancelled," she informed Rose.

"What? I've just got dressed."

"Sorry, Shell! You've got no one til nine."

She shut the door on them and they could hear her footsteps hastening away.

"Great," Rose said, her shoulders drooping. "Well, I've got half an hour. What do you want to do?" She looked up at Sherlock and raised her eyebrows.

Sherlock noted the suggestive look Rose was giving him. "Ah. No," he replied. "Didn't bring any cash. Sorry."

A sly grin slowly appeared on Rose's face and she narrowed the distance between them. "You've been helping me tonight. How about a freebie?"

"Um. No," Sherlock stated, scanning Rose from head to toe. _Really disturbing in that outfit_ , he thought.

Suddenly Rose's expression hardened, and with swift, precise movements she spun Sherlock around and slammed him chest first into a locker. She held fast on the back of his collar, leaning her body into him and using her leg as pressure against the back of his. Sherlock was still making sense of what just happened when he heard the unmistakeable click and felt the cool metal of handcuffs around his wrists.

"Rose," he gasped.

"Not Rose," she whispered. "Constable Rose."

Sherlock's head buzzed. _What?_

"You've been a bad boy," she whispered. "Don't be alarmed. I'm just going to search you."

"Um. Rose."

He felt the pressure of Rose's hand stealing around his waist, then slide down to his groin.

"Ah, that's...so..." she murmured, rubbing her hand across the fabric of his trousers, "...naughty."

"Rose," Sherlock said, with less emotion. He straightened up, which he now realised was easy to do as Rose's figure was so slight and she was unable to keep him pinned to the locker.

"Don't resist," she crooned, still massaging him. "It'll all be over..."

Sherlock suddenly turned around, breaking out of Rose's grasp.

"I said 'No'," he said coolly, looking down at her, his height now the full menacing detective. However, his hands were still bound behind his back.

Rose's smile faltered; she was no longer so sure of herself. "It was just a joke, Sherlock."

"I said 'No', yet you still persisted. That's sexual assault. Don't they teach you these things?"

Rose's face fell. "I'm sorry! I didn't..."

But Sherlock turned his back on her once more and commanded, "Cuffs."

Silently Rose retrieved the key from a little leather pouch on her 'accessories' belt and unlocked the handcuffs that bound Sherlock's wrists. He turned back around to face her, and rubbed at his wrists where the handcuffs had left a red mark. He was not impressed.

"You think you know what people want don't you?" he began. "You think you can read men's desires in their erect penises. Have you seen your clientele? Have you no respect for yourself? Are you really just a repository for men's semen?"

Rose had stepped back from Sherlock, her eyes wide, and her face pale as he delivered his tirade of abuse.

He regarded her for a few seconds, and when she didn't say anything, he strode over to the door and exited swiftly. As he marched down the corridor, then descended the stairs, he thought, _Yep, never coming back to this establishment._


	7. Oh, John, I Envy You So Much

"I didn't make an appointment," Sherlock stated impassively, staring down at Rose who stood shivering on his threshold.

 _He really can kill you with just one look can't he,_ Rose thought, feeling belittled under Sherlock's gaze. "I know," she responded in a small voice. "I just came to apologise."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at her. Apologies directed at the high-functioning sociopath were largely ignored. If he felt slighted by someone, he would either feel wounded and sulk for days, weeks even, or ignore them until he needed them for something. Rose was in the latter category.

Rose quickly added, "I came by yesterday at midday. I cancelled my lunch, but your landlady said you were out."

"I _was_ out."

There was an uncomfortable silence. Well, uncomfortable for Rose. Sherlock just continued to stare at her. Rose eventually asked if she could come in, adding the excuse that it was cold out. To emphasise this she hugged her body, hoping that dramatising her discomfort would thaw even the coldest heart.

"I thought you came to apologise," Sherlock remarked tonelessly.

Apparently not the coldest heart then.

"I did. I'm sorry." Then she added, "I'm sorry I didn't respect your wishes."

Sherlock thought for a moment, as if digesting her words. "Apology accepted."

He shut the door, leaving Rose bewildered on the pavement.

Sherlock mounted the stairs, two at a time, and upon entering his flat he went back to his laptop which was resting on a side table beside his armchair. He sighed as he read an email from Lestrade at Scotland Yard. Missing Turner masterpiece. _Dull_. He quickly scanned the rest of his emails. _Dull, boring, repetitive. Where have all the serial killers gone? Didn't anybody give nasty children pets in the nineties?_ Then he heard the sound of the downstairs door opening, and voices on the stairwell. Next he heard the regular cadence of his flatmate's footsteps, interspersed with lighter, swifter steps.

 _Oh fuck me_ , he deduced savagely, and thoughts of which stray prostitute had followed John home entered his cerebral cortex.

"Look who I found shivering outside on our doorstep," John beamed, striding into the living room followed by Rose. "Isn't the doorbell working?"

"Evidentally not," Sherlock replied, drawing his lips in a thin line, his eyes following Rose's movements into his flat. _John, I'm disappointed in you. She obviously preyed on the weak and libidinous._

"Hi," Rose said shyly. "Um, I just came to ask your and John's permission to include your full names in my bibliography."

"An email would've sufficed," Sherlock muttered, looking back at his screen.

John shot him a look. "He means 'Yes'. Ah, tea?" he asked Rose as Sherlock tutted.

Rose thanked John then walked over to Sherlock and sat opposite him in John's armchair. Sherlock looked up and frowned at her. John made excuses about needing to use the bathroom and hastened along the corridor at the back of the kitchen.

Sherlock scowled. He thought he was done with Rose. He had almost made up his mind that sex with a prostitute in his own flat was never going to happen after his visit to the brothel. Having her show up on his doorstep uninvited seemed to disregard his own thought processes and decision making. For no other reason than that, he decided to stare more intently at his screen, and pretend Rose wasn't there.

"I was thinking of doing something for you by way of an apology," she said, breaking his concentration which left him fuming.

Sherlock sighed. "Doing something for me?"

"Sucking you off until you come, something like that."

She said it so casually that Sherlock wasn't sure he'd heard her correctly. His eyes darted to the door John had left through. Asking if everything was related to sex as far as she was concerned only served to encourage her more. Even warning her that John could walk in at any moment made her offer to do him too.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at Rose. She was serious. She was offering herself as easily as one would volunteer to buy a packet of crisps for you from a vending machine.

He continued to scrutinise her, then spoke in a low voice.

"Why are you so intent on getting my forgiveness? What do you care what I think of you? Is it the money? The income you perceive you've lost because I'll no longer be your client?"

Rose leaned back in John's chair, deep in thought.

"To be honest, yes. I was counting on that two hundred quid. I need it. I barely make two hundred in an entire Saturday night. And you know what I have to put up with to get that. Two hundred from you is easy money."

"Easy?"

"You hardly need me to do anything. You're clean, and ... decent. You're respectful, and you like to talk, which is quite pleasant. I can relax with you. One hour in your company would be easy. We'd probably only fuck twice in that time." She glanced away for a moment. "You said you appreciate my honesty, so there it is. I need the money."

Sherlock just stared at her, and opened his mouth to reply when he heard John returning.

John cleared his throat. He wondered what Shelley and Sherlock had been discussing that had left an air of tension in the room.

 _God, Sherlock is a rude bastard sometimes_ , he thought.

Rose stood up, and walked around the chair to the kitchen. Sherlock's eyes widened in alarm.

"Can I help with anything?" she asked John.

"Er, no, I think I'm right here. So..." he asked conversationally pouring the tea as Rose examined Sherlock's apparatus on the sideboard, "Are you working? It's a tough gig being a student these days."

Sherlock almost choked at John's question.

"Part-time," Rose said slowly, looking up at Sherlock while John's back was turned.

"Helping...people..." she added, staring at Sherlock, her mouth forming a sly smile.

"Oh?" remarked John in interest.

"People who can't get up...themselves. The elderly mostly. Those who can't get out and about. I do shopping for them, that sort of thing."

"Oh, that's pretty decent of you," John commented, walking over to her and handing her a tea cup. "Shall we sit?"

"Here is fine."

Rose perched herself onto a bar stool, positioned to face Sherlock, while John leant against the kitchen table facing Rose. Sherlock glared at them both.

"So what do you like to do in your spare time, John?" Rose asked innocently.

"Huh," John managed a small chuckle, "When I'm not chasing this one," he indicated Sherlock, "around the country-side after criminals I like to have a quiet cuppa and read a book."

"Lovely," replied Rose. "And do you spend much time with your...girlfriend?"

Sherlock shot her daggers.

"Ah," remarked John. "I think I made my last girlfriend a bit angry."

"Oh, I can't imagine why," Rose replied, giving John a sweet smile.

He grinned back at her. "No, I tried to crawl back to her by offering to walk her dog... then I realised it was my previous girlfriend who had the dog."

Rose laughed at this and leant over to touch John's arm. "That's so charming!" she remarked.

Sherlock was horrified, so he commented, "Don't forget that lovely doctor you met in Dartmoor, John. Dr. Mortimer wasn't it? John likes the intelligent, classy type. Women with high morals and intelligence."

"Yes, thank you," John said turning his head to Sherlock. "I didn't think you paid much attention to my dating life."

"And how about you, Sherlock?" Rose asked.

"Huh, Sherlock doesn't date," John remarked. "He's married to his work. Can't you tell?"

"Got any cash on you, John?" Sherlock asked suddenly.

"Er, what?"

"Cash? Or are you broke again...sending money to that sister of yours. John never has any money left to spend on his own entertainment," he said, directing his last statement to Rose.

John turned around and stared at Sherlock as if he'd gone mad.

"Well," said Rose, hopping off the stool. "I should get going."

John muttered noises of disappointment with Sherlock feeling sickened by his flatmate's obvious responses to Rose's pathetic attempts at flirting with him. She even recited his credentials back to him, emphasising the title Doctor, and keeping up the illusion she needed it for her bibliography.

After she thanked John, Rose asked Sherlock if he'd walk her out, confusing John in the process.

She started down the stairs as John said quietly, "Uh, Sherlock."

"Yes?" Sherlock queried, halting his tread before the living room door.

"Just...be...careful," John said, enunciating each word slowly.

 _Not a moron, John_. "What?"

"I don't think she's..."

"What?" Sherlock asked again, feeling impatient for John to spit out whatever misguided feelings he had about Rose.

"Just read between the lines, okay?"

"I don't know what you mean." He really didn't.

"I'll...talk to you when you get back up."

Sighing, Sherlock descended the staircase after Rose. He closed the door to the street after them and stared at Rose, whose back was turned. She finally turned around to face him, wiping tears from her eyes.

Sherlock rolled his eyes at her and scowled. "That doesn't work on me," he stated simply.

"Oh shut it!" she replied, her phony tears immediately drying up. "Nothing works on you. You're an emotionless android."

 _Been called worse_ , Sherlock mused. He was still pissed off with Rose and even more so now that she had spent time flirting with John.

"He'd never pay for sex," he said simply.

Rose had heard that one before. "They all pay for sex eventually," she responded bitterly. "They just don't know it."

Sherlock looked away from Rose, scanning the street, watching everybody going about their business while he was negotiating with a prostitute on his doorstep. He looked back down at her and said, "One hundred and fifty pounds."

She gazed back at him for a few seconds before responding. "I don't think that's worth my while."

"Fine," he said, and stepped back towards his threshold, putting his hand on the door in an effort to leave her.

"Thirty pounds," she said.

"What?"

"Thirty pounds is how much I get to keep out of the fifty you give me at the brothel. Twenty goes to using the premises and for security."

"Security?" Sherlock mocked.

When Rose nodded, Sherlock asked, "So how much would you get out of two hundred, for an hour's work there?"

"One twenty."

Sherlock scoffed and shook his head.

"Which is why two hundred with you is so..." Rose's eyes filled with tears once more. "An hour spent with you could mean I don't have to do Saturday nights," she whispered.

Sherlock sighed and looked skyward. He didn't like to be played. But the decision whether to have or not have sex in his flat was still tipped slightly in favour of the former, in spite of Rose's phony waterworks.

"One eighty," he said softly. "And stop flirting with John."

* * *

Sex in flat, take two.

John was at work. Sherlock knew this as he had watched him go. John's shift was to start at eight. He had left at seven thirty. Sherlock's appointment with Rose was at nine. Morning sex. A good start to the day. And if John for some reason didn't leave for work and was still at home by 8:30, Sherlock could leave Rose a text sent to the mobile she only kept for the purpose's of her sex work. Sherlock had the privilege of being the first client to be in possession of this private phone number.

"Don't ever ring me for a 'chat'. The phone will be turned off until one hour before an appointment time. And I'll only check it intermittently throughout the day," she had advised him.

Sherlock wasn't as nervous as the first time he'd waited for her at home, since Rose had already been in their flat twice before, and he felt a little bit more in control. He was doing her a favour as much as she was doing him.

Doing him a favour, that is.

Well, and doing him.

John's warning seemed a bit odd, although Sherlock wasn't sure how much John had read in between what Sherlock had considered to be very brief and curt interactions between himself and Rose/Shelley. John subtly tried to suggest that Shelley was trying to lead Sherlock on in order to get more information out of him for her research paper. Sherlock seized on that idea and gave John the impression that Shelley was trying to sweet talk Sherlock into letting her accompany him on a new case or two for the purposes of her paper, and he kept rebuffing her.

He was standing at the kitchen counter, slowly reading a newspaper—well, not actually reading it, turning the pages slowly as his mind wandered—when his doorbell buzzed. He sprinted downstairs before Mrs Hudson could get it.

Rose's expression was warm and bright. "Hi!" she said.

"Hefty load," Sherlock commented, indicating her bag full of books as they made their way upstairs.

"I'm going to uni straight after. Busy day."

They entered the living room, with Rose watching curiously as Sherlock locked the door behind her. He saw her looking and commented, "Landlady."

"Oh. Well, I just need to, ah, freshen up? Can I use your bathroom?"

"Yes, it's just through here," Sherlock gestured, striding through the kitchen with Rose following him. "And the other door leads into the bedroom. My bedroom," he added smiling sheepishly.

"Thanks. I guess I'm already prepared for your visit at the brothel, but here I'll have to spend a bit of time getting ready. We can start the timer after I'm out if you like?"

Sherlock frowned. "I'd prefer you didn't use that timer. It irritates me. Can't we just look at the clock and add an hour?"

"It's just a way of ensuring there's no confusion. The timer goes off, we both hear it, and that way nobody gets mistaken."

"Or we could just look at the clock and say it's nine oh two now, so we should stop at ten oh two."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows at Rose, fully confident at his own logical way of thinking.

"I'll just set the timer. It's how I work. Let's not change the arrangement now."

"We didn't have any arrangement regarding the timer."

"We had an arrangement to keep the same conditions as at the brothel."

Sherlock stared at her, already starting to feel tense at not being able to get his own way in his bedroom of all places.

"Fine," he said eventually.

"Thanks," she replied, but she remained where she was standing.

Finally Rose raised an eyebrow, prompting Sherlock to exclaim, "Oh!"

He reached into his pocket, drew out his wallet and the cash, then counted out one hundred and eighty pounds for Rose. She thanked him and folded the money into her hand. She took it, along with her bag, into the bathroom.

Sherlock closed his bedroom door, then began undressing. He was naked and ready for Rose once she had finished in the bathroom. She was dressed as she usually did in the brothel—wrapped in her dressing gown. Without really thinking about it, Sherlock lightly pulled his bed sheet over his lower half.

"I love your bedroom," Rose remarked, walking around the bed to the shelves that adorned the far wall. "It's almost as interesting as your living room with all these artefacts." She shrugged her dressing gown from her shoulders, letting it drop to the floor as she picked up a small wooden carving from the shelf. Carefully stroking the polished surface with her thumb she turned to Sherlock and raised her eyebrows.

"German," he stated.

"Mmm," she mused, and replaced the carving. She browsed the remaining shelves as if she were in a supermarket.

"This looks rather ancient," she commented, picking up a tattered-looking book.

"From Persia. A first edition."

"Oh," she said, flipping through the novel. "And how do these things get to be in your possession?" she asked, replacing the book.

"Work. Cases I solve for people who can't pay."

"Really?" Rose remarked, picking up a wooden dart gun and running her fingers along the black design, which had been carved by burning sticks. "Does it work?"

"Never tried it."

Sherlock watched Rose as she slowly moved along the shelf. He cleared his throat. "Are we going to get started?" he asked.

Rose looked at him for a moment, a sly smile spreading across her face. "We have."

Sherlock looked at her, perplexed, as Rose walked seductively back around the bed.

"Pull your sheet down," she suggested, and when Sherlock didn't, Rose gently slid it across the bed and away from his legs, revealing Sherlock's full arousal.

"Oh, my," she whispered, "Visual stimulation."

"That's not conclusive," Sherlock replied, his voice hoarse with emotion.

"Same?"

"Mmm," he murmured, lying down fully and feeling perfectly relaxed against his own pillow, amongst his own things, in his own bedroom. And once Rose had commenced he even put his hands down, tangling his fingers in Rose's hair, which took her by surprise.

Sherlock got so carried up in the process that he couldn't bring himself to stop her as he normally did. _She's going for the apology_ , he thought curiously, then he moaned, almost passing the point of no return. Then Rose stopped.

"Keep going?" she whispered.

"No, no..." Sherlock replied almost inaudibly.

But Rose had taken her cue and had mounted him. And before she had even established a regular rhythm, he was already moaning and pulling at her.

Game over.


	8. Brainy's The New Sexy

"Of course that's because you lingered too long down there," Sherlock said defensively a few minutes later, of his first ever sexual encounter in his bedroom.

"It's okay for it to be different each time," Rose said gently.

"I don't like surprises," Sherlock stated. He rose from the bed and disappeared into his bathroom for a minute.

 _Doesn't like surprises_ , Rose thought in reflection.  _He likes everything to be the same. How can I get to do anything more adventurous in bed then?_

Sherlock returned to the bedroom wearing an old grey t-shirt and long stripey grey pyjama pants.

"Tea, biscuits?" he asked Rose, who was still lounging on his bed and picking something out of her fingernails.

"Um... yes?" answered Rose, thinking that ought to be the correct answer.

"Well, you'll have to cover yourself up a bit," Sherlock said, waving his hand at her and disappearing through his door.

"Oh... are we going out there?" asked Rose, but Sherlock had already gone.

Rose wrapped herself in her dressing gown again and made her way out into the kitchen where Sherlock was busying himself with making tea. Rose walked into the living area asking Sherlock about clients and how much he charged for the consultations.

"That's confidential," he said, a tiny smile tugging at his lips. He would've been happy to tell her the answer, but thought he'd remain as tight-lipped about financial transactions as she had been.

Rose shot him a look, then went to sit down in his grey leather armchair by the fire. Sherlock walked over to the chairs, carrying two tea cups and stopped short, glaring at Rose.

She noticed his expression and asked, "Your chair?"

"Yes," he replied, and stared at her until she moved over to John's overstuffed armchair. Sherlock placed a teacup on a side table next to Rose, and the other on a small table next to his chair.

"Biscuits?" he asked politely.

Rose furrowed her brow. "Biscuits?"

"Biscuits," Sherlock repeated distractedly. He turned and headed back to the kitchen. "I think John hid some somewhere," he stated pensively.

Rose was communicating on a different wavelength. "You mean real biscuits?"

"Yes, what did you think I meant?" Sherlock called back from the kitchen floor, where he was reaching into the bowels of a lower cupboard, quite confident that this was where John had hidden the biscuits.

"There you are," he murmured, when his fingers brushed the packet.

He triumphantly walked back into the living room with the biscuits. Rose was staring at him, with a look of amusement on her face.

"You really meant tea and biscuits, didn't you?"

Sherlock looked at Rose, searching her face. Had he gone mad?

"Tea and biscuits. Yes. Are you a savage? Have you not heard of this?"

Rose laughed. "I thought this was some sort of odd sex game."

"What kind of world do you live in?"

"A world where men pay me to have sex and dress up and indulge in all sorts of sexual fantasies. Yes, I thought tea and biscuits was a euphemism for something sexual," Rose concluded, shrugging. She was unapologetic in her explanation.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow in condemnation. "Well where I come from tea and biscuits is tea," he indicated Rose's cup, "and biscuits." He raised the packet and his other eyebrow shot up at the same time.

"I know. But you are paying me to be here."

Sherlock's face fell. "Don't you want tea?"

"Yes!" Rose picked up her tea cup. "Definitely. Not the biscuits though, thank you. I'm watching my weight."

"Oh," Sherlock commented, sitting down in his chair. "It looks like you've lost a couple of pounds since we first met. Mostly around your waist and your breasts," he said matter-of-factly, waving his hand at her as if she didn't know where her breasts were.

Rose stopped drinking mid-sip and smiled. They sat there in silence for a few minutes, sipping tea, with Sherlock drumming his fingers on the arm of his chair and occasionally shooting Rose questioning glances.

Eventually Rose noticed that Sherlock was wearing pyjamas and remarked that she thought he looked cute. Sherlock was horrified at her comment, thinking that the word cute should only be reserved for puppies and small children.

They went back to sipping their tea again with Rose asking Sherlock why he didn't date.

"It's not really my area," Sherlock replied wearily.

"Doesn't have to be an 'area'," Rose responded. "It just happens."

"I don't see the point. All that matters to me is my work. Physiological needs are secondary. Eating, sleeping," He waved his hand in the air in a vague gesture, "...sex."

Rose was coming to understand Sherlock the more time she spent chatting with him, and she was becoming concerned with his interpersonal skills. "I'm not talking about sex. I'm talking about relationships. It's a psychological need."

Sherlock had been through this before, numerous times, with numerous people, all worried about him being lonely. He didn't need...people. "The only mental stimulation I need is the work. The cases."

"But you enjoy our conversations, you said. And you have a flatmate who shares your cases with you. There must be something in that other than rent relief."

Sharing a flat and cases with John Watson did not constitute a relationship, Sherlock reasoned. He usually just ignored it when people made assumptions otherwise. Of course most people were idiots at best, so it was never an issue worth worrying over. To Rose he stated, "That's not the same as dating."

"It may be the same. It may be closer than you think. All that could be missing is the sex," Roses suggested, casually sipping her tea.

"With John?!" Sherlock asked, horrified.

"With anyone," she shrugged. "All I'm saying is, you're probably more capable of dating than you realise."

Sherlock looked away, his eyes scanning nothing in particular. Capability and willingness were two entirely different things. What a load of nonsense. He returned his gaze to Rose. He thought it was high time for a subject change.

"How about you?" he asked. "Do you date? Is it even possible in your line of work?"

It was Rose's turn to squirm uncomfortably. "That's a personal question."

"Oh, we're back to that," Sherlock remarked, flashing her a knowing look. "Well, I already know you're a student and your major is psychology. A mature age student so you've done other things in your life. Only three other people apart from me know you're both a student and a prostitute so I assume that would be Mark and Cynthia. They'd advertised in some underground spread for university students to make money 'modelling'. Highly likely you met them through that. And the third person is probably a flat mate. Perhaps she worked at the brothel first and encouraged you to do the same. You're moderately attractive, and slightly intelligent. I can see young men asking you out on dates quite frequently. Do you say 'yes' or are you sick of the sight of males lusting after you? Do you bat for the other team? Perhaps. You wanted to give me a freebie, so you must like sex for the sake of sex. Are you in a steady relationship? To answer that question I need to see the underwear you changed out of."

Rose sat in the armchair staring at Sherlock, her tea cup poised to take a sip from, although she hadn't during Sherlock's monologue.

"My underwear?" she repeated.

"Yes," Sherlock responded, eyebrows raised in expectation.

"I think that falls under the category of personal details." Rose returned her cup to it's saucer and glared at Sherlock, hoping that would suffice as a warning to cease and desist.

But Sherlock was in his element now. He had no intention of leaving it there. Narrowing his eyes in scrutiny, he commenced a new round. "The jacket you were wearing..."

"What about it?"

"It's covered in cat hair. You're a cat person. The hair doesn't bother you. You dump your jacket down wherever, your bed probably, and the cat lies on it. It likes your scent. You must be the one who looks after it, wherever you live, whomever you live with."

Rose's expression softened into a smile.

Sherlock continued, "The chain you wore around your neck when you came in—a pendant. Half a love heart. Who has the other half?" He frowned in mock concern. "Could be a former lover, not a current one. People tend to hang onto things. Sentiment. Your bag of books. With the keychain hanging off it. The kind you pick up when you buy of packet of cigarettes. But you don't smoke..."

"What's the point of all this?" Rose interrupted him, looking slightly amused.

"The point is...this is all from one visit from you. One glance into your personal life. You arrived here this morning, in all your private glory. You. Rose. Not Shelley. You didn't arrive naked on my doorstep. This is what I do for a living. A client shows up at my door, ready to dump all of their personal woes on me, and I've already read their profession in their demeanor, their health in their gait and their lies in their fidgeting fingers."

Rose stopped picking her nails in that instant.

"You asked me not to ask you personal questions, but you've just answered half of them by showing up."

Rose stood up, her eyes shining brightly. She unwrapped her robe, and let it fall open as she moved over and knelt down in front of Sherlock.

"That was amazing," she whispered. "Can you read me now?" she asked seductively, sliding her hand across Sherlock's thigh.

This wasn't the usual response to one of his deductions. He assumed the conversation as it was previously conducted was now over.

There was something oddly familiar about this scenario, Sherlock thought.

Irene Adler. The Woman.

The woman who'd called him a virgin. She wore a dressing gown, his dressing gown, although it wasn't open, as she asked him if he'd ever had anyone. She tried, delicately, to seduce him with an obscure invitation to dinner. And he wasn't turned on, not one bit. Was that because he had never had anyone? No experience to draw from? In contrast to this very moment, where he'd had Rose quite a few times now and her open robe was very revealing. The combination of visual stimuli and memories of their sexual encounters to draw on now, he was easily aroused by her.

Sherlock straightened up, and reached down to Rose's shoulder. He pulled at the dressing gown, letting it slip over her shoulder revealing more of her breasts. He just needed to look - obtain stimuli to assist him in remembering her writhing over him, underneath him, because they were particularly pleasant memories weren't they? Sherlock could feel the heat pooling between his legs and his heart rate increasing.

Rose had shrugged off the remainder of the gown, so that she knelt completely naked in front of Sherlock.

Rose's heart skipped a beat when Sherlock had touched her gown, his fingers lightly brushing her skin. This was the first time Sherlock had ever wanted to see more of her and had taken the initiative in order to do so.

Sherlock leant forward, and with one hand, gently caressed Rose's neck, entwining his fingers into the back of her hair. At this close proximity he could smell her perfume. She was never one to apply it by the bucket load as some women did. And for that he had always been grateful. It was very subtle and he found it mixed alluringly with her natural scent.

Rose didn't realise she was now holding her breath, as if the very act of breathing would interfere with every nerve ending in her body poised to receive Sherlock's touch. She felt like she was the recipient in this moment, instead of the instigator. But then she remembered to breathe and her hand recommenced its journey along Sherlock's thigh.

Sherlock stole his free hand to the one Rose was gliding over his leg, not quite all the way to his groin yet, but igniting small fires along the way. She was teasing him. Sherlock's fingers slid along her wrist as he lowered his face to hers.

Although Rose had peeled off the only item of clothing she wore, she had never felt as naked and exposed as she felt right now under Sherlock's gaze and scrutiny, and his face was coming perilously close to hers. She could almost feel his breath making tiny caresses on her neck.

 _No, don't kiss me_ , thought Rose, her breathing growing shallow.  _Yes, kiss me!_

But Sherlock didn't. He brought his face closer to hers, then whispered triumphantly in her ear, "You're aroused."

Rose stopped what she was doing. His baritone voice whispering in her ear caused a sensation right through her body, and then she noted his actual words. She slowly stood up. Her face had fallen, she swallowed and turned, walking swiftly toward Sherlock's bedroom.

"Rose?"

He followed her into his room where he found she had grabbed her bag and had locked herself in his bathroom.

"Rose?" he called softly through the door.

"I have to leave. This is not acceptable," she called back, her voice clearly reflecting her emotional state.

Sherlock looked at his bedside clock. "We've got twenty-five minutes left."

Rose opened the bathroom door. She was in her underwear and a shirt that was still unbuttoned. She was flushed and her expression hardened.

"If I'm at any stage made to feel uncomfortable, you have to leave. And since you can't leave, then I have to."

"Uncomfortable?" Sherlock asked. He was confused. He thought he was learning to master this give and take thing. "You were far from uncomfortable. You were aroused. Isn't that a good thing?" He raised his eyebrows expectantly.

"You made me feel uncomfortable by pointing that out."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Aren't you responsible for your own feelings? I was simply stating a fact."

Rose tried to gather her thoughts just as Sherlock quickly scanned her.

"No boyfriend then," he remarked, eyeing her underwear.

"What?" Rose exclaimed, suddenly holding her shirt closed and feeling exposed.

" _Now_  you're feeling modest?" he asked in amazement.

Rose stepped backward into the bathroom and shut the door again.

"Go away!" she yelled through it.

"I'm not paying for the full hour!" Sherlock yelled back.

There was silence, then she opened the door again. "You have to!"

"Where is that written?" he challenged.

"It's understood! You hired me for one hour minimum, so you have to pay me one hour minimum."

"Then you have to stay!"

"Not if you've upset me!" Rose retorted.

"Now you've upset me!" Sherlock shot back. "I have half an erection! Don't I get a refund? You haven't serviced your client! I don't get paid for solving half a case!"

"Now you're being a bully!" Rose stomped her foot as she said, "I knew there was a reason I didn't do call-outs!" She crossed her arms.

Sherlock grinned slightly as Rose's mini-tantrum.

Rose looked down at Sherlock's small, but visible bulge in his pyjamas, and suddenly burst into laughter. She covered her mouth with her hands and walked out of the bathroom.

"I'm sorry!" she said, while still laughing. "You still have a... sort of erection."

Sherlock put his hands on his hips and frowned at her. "That's your doing."

Rose paused and her expression remained bright. "Okay, I'll stay," she said smiling. "On one condition."

"What's that?" Sherlock asked, looking at Rose suspiciously.

"You have to undress me," she announced triumphantly.

Sherlock was suspicious of any idea that involved him doing things to Rose. There was always that new danger of her, heaven forbid, enjoying herself. He voiced his concerns and she advised him to kindly not point that out in future. She told him with a certain amount of encouragement that this would be good experience for him.

"You have to once in your life learn how to unhook a woman's bra. Learning how to do it with one hand is even better," she added.

Sherlock smiled slyly. He loved a challenge. Something he could perfect and be the best at.

* * *

"One handed, you say?"

"Again," Rose gasped as her bra popped open.

She reached back and fastened it again as Sherlock chuckled to himself. He had easily managed the one-handed bra unclasping challenge, his deft handiwork even impressing Rose.

"Now don't forget some bras fasten at the front, so if the strap feels smooth back there, then the clasp is most likely in the front. And if there's no clasp at all, then don't fuck her!"

"Why?" Sherlock asked, managing the task for the fifth time without effort.

"Because it means she's very practical and not worth the fuck."

Sherlock looked down at Rose's face as she smiled up at him. That statement meant nothing to him. And although he had met the challenge, he couldn't actually see how it would be useful to him at all. Just where was he going to meet all these women with bra fastener mystery locations that he would be interested in having sex with? Such a scenario was so not on the horizon for him.

"Now finish taking it off," Rose said.

Sherlock grasped both shoulder straps and pulled them downwards, slightly jerking Rose forward in the process.

"Ow, hey, slowly! Try that again."

"What's the problem?" Sherlock asked, bending down and picking up Rose's bra.

"Slowly and sensually."

Sherlock shrugged and raised his eyebrows, not understanding. He held out the bra as Rose put her arms through the straps, then fastened it at the back again.

"When you pulled my dressing gown off my shoulder earlier, why did you do that?"

"I wanted to see your breasts a bit better," he stated matter-of-factly.

"Why?"

"Because...they reminded me of having sex with you and just seeing only part of them got me aroused."

"Good," Rose responded, looking at Sherlock rather proudly. "Just a hint was enough to get you aroused. So, taking my bra off slowly is a bit like that. A hint at first, then more is revealed. It's a turn on for you. That's why at the beginning of our first ever session I started undressing slowly for you. Remember that?"

Sherlock thought for a moment. "Oh!" he exclaimed, enlightened at last. "A hint!" he added, his eyes sparkling. "The expectation. A promise of what's to come!"

Rose laughed. "Yes. A promise. Again? And this time let me take your t-shirt off next, okay?"

"Ready," said Sherlock, brow furrowed, waggling his fingers as if to warm them up.

Rose bit the inside of her cheeks to prevent herself from laughing.

Sherlock moved toward her again, hands extended.

"Wait!" Rose said suddenly.

"What now?"

"Just do it as you're embracing me. It kind of goes with making out...which we're not going to do, so just hug me."

Sherlock tutted and rolled his eyes. He moved closer to Rose, pulling her in for a hug as she put her arms around his neck. Rose found herself in the uncomfortable position of getting goosebumps with the unfamiliar feeling of Sherlock gently embracing her, caressing her back and breathing lightly onto her neck. One hand ran down sensually along her spine, as the other had effortlessly unclasped her bra. She hadn't instructed him to run his hand down her back like that? A quick huff from Sherlock told her that he had grinned in triumph.

"I distracted you with what my left hand was doing," he whispered in her ear, sending more shivers up and down her body.

Rose closed her eyes and thought,  _Get a grip, Rose, this is not about you!_  To Sherlock she whispered back, "Yes, I felt what you did there."

Slowly pulling out of the embrace, Sherlock gently glided his hands up to Rose's shoulder blades, then along her shoulders, slipping the straps off along with them. Rose dropped her arms from around Sherlock's neck so that her bra slid away from her and fell to the floor. Rose then slid her arms under Sherlock's t-shirt, edging it up, and caressing his torso then his back at the same time.

Rose knew her heart rate was going to increase the moment Sherlock returned his arms around her. He was copying what she was doing to him—caressing her bare back. And she could feel his breath on her neck again. She felt her legs weakening.  _God, that feels so good,_  she thought. Not the grabbing, rubbing demanding touch most of her clients had.  _Stop it Rose, stop enjoying him!_

She quickly pulled Sherlock's shirt up, and he obediently raised his arms which meant they were no longer touching her back. Thank goodness, she thought, as she lifted the shirt over his head. Now his hair was all tousled. Her eyes roamed over it for a second, feeling small flutters of desire in her belly.  _My sweet Lord,_  thought Rose, immediately wanting to run her hands through his curls.  _What's wrong with me?_

"Okay, excellent," she said, stepping back as if the cameras had stopped rolling and it was time to have a tea break. "Let's just finish this off okay? You're erect? Good. Let's just do this."

She reached into her bag and slapped a condom packet down onto Sherlock's bedside table. Then she pulled her knickers down and stepped out of them as Sherlock tilted his head slightly wondering why it had all ended so abruptly. He was really enjoying himself.

"What?"

Rose sat on the bed and moved to the middle, knees bent and looked at Sherlock expectantly.

"Come on, pants off," she said, then she patted the mattress beside her.

"Oh, I thought we were doing the slow and sensual thing," Sherlock commented, pulling his pj bottoms down.

"We were. Great job! Next week, we'll work on knickers and boxers!" she exclaimed with fake enthusiasm.

Sherlock eyed her suspiciously then got into bed next to her.

"Same again?" she said, smiling at him.

"No," he said. "Straight to phase three." He reached beside him and grabbed at the condom, passing it to her. At her puzzled look, he stated, "Phase one is you sucking me off, phase two is you on top, and phase three is me on top. I missed out earlier."

Rose smiled faintly, lay back, wrapped her legs around Sherlock as he positioned himself on top of her, then she expertly ripped opened the packet and rolled the condom over Sherlock's full erection while he'd tilted to the side.

"Um, shouldn't we...oh!"  _I guess he counts unclasping my bra half a dozen times as suitable foreplay,_  Rose thought as Sherlock entered her.  _Thank goodness for extra lube condoms._

Sherlock's breath was upon her neck again, and as she moved in time with him, gently pulling on his hips, she imagined, again, running her fingers through that perfectly tousled hair. And instead of his breath cooling her neck, she imagined his kisses, maybe little nibbles (no biting, remember!) and... what's he doing with his hand?

One of Sherlock's hands was positioned on her side, which he then ever so carefully slid upwards, stopping on the side of her breast. His thumb then gently caressed her there, lightly flicking over her nipple.

Rose's breathing grew shallower as she swore she felt Sherlock's lips brush her neck, not just his breath. Left feeling unsatisfied and without thinking too much at all, she tilted her pelvis into him, so that she could really feel him.

_Just there - oh - you - wonderful, gorgeous - oh!_

Rose's hands were suddenly in his hair. She pressed his head down so there would be no doubt in her mind that his lips were now on her neck. And his hand was now fully massaging her breast, as ripples of pleasure ran up and down her body. She found herself yielding to his touch.

It wasn't enough for Rose. She wanted to become lost in his embrace, his scent, his hands, fingertips and tongue; all finding small pleasure centres she had kept buried deep. She moved underneath Sherlock, encouraging him, pulling at him until he also began to moan.

 _Oh my God_ , thought Rose in a panic.  _What am I doing?_  She tilted her pelvis again so she was no longer in danger. Her hands ran along Sherlock's back to his hips and buttocks so she could help him climax. It couldn't be about her now.  _What a fucking idiot. Nearly lost it there._

With a final few thrusts, Sherlock had finished. Rose swallowed hard, her heart still beating wildly. She wrapped her arms tightly around his neck as his body relaxed on top of her. She still cradled him with her thighs. Sherlock was still breathing into her neck as he whispered, "Rose, let go now."

"Sorry," she replied, unwinding her arms.

He rolled off and lay down next to her, still breathing hard.

"Excellent," he whispered.

 


	9. Moderately Intelligent

"I've just read about you in the paper!"

"Mmm," Sherlock commented, unimpressed that he had had to attend a presentation ceremony after having recovered the stolen Turner masterpiece,  _Falls of the Reichenbach_. Whatever happened to remaining anonymous? But the Art Gallery had insisted. They wanted to do a 'thing' and of course that involved the press.

Rose followed him upstairs. She felt slightly apprehensive but mostly excited. She found herself looking forward to the week rolling around again, when she had her next call out to Sherlock's flat. She tried to tell herself it was because the money was good, and it required little effort on her part.

Sherlock was also mildly excited. He'd thoroughly enjoyed the sex in his flat, plus the bra challenge. He'd of course noticed all the signs that Rose had once again become aroused when they were having sex last time. But he made sure not to point out that fact. He wanted to make that happen again. He'd done his research. Call it challenge #2.

"Have you read it?" Rose asked, pulling the folded newspaper from her bag.

"Uh. No. Probably rubbish; probably all wrong."

Sherlock stopped to lock the door to his flat to prevent Mrs Hudson from entering, and calling out "Woo hoo?" while they were in the throes of passion.

"Perhaps," continued Rose. "They've called you an amateur detective?"

Sherlock scoffed as he walked through his living room. "Morons."

"And they think it's your 'hobby'," Rose read, as she followed Sherlock into his bedroom.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "They would."

He shut his bedroom door after Rose had entered.

"I'll leave it for you," she said, dropping the newspaper onto the bed.

Sherlock remembered this time, and he immediately held out the cash for Rose. She thanked him then preceded into the bathroom to change. She called through the door, "Leave your pyjamas on!"

Sherlock had remained in his pjs that morning. He couldn't see the point in getting dressed yet - not with his morning session of sex with a prostitute booked in for nine o'clock. John had inquired, "I thought you were going to get started on that missing banker case?"

John knew that Sherlock usually stayed in pyjamas when he was bored and didn't have a case. Sherlock had muttered something about ironing his shirt, which John found odd. Don't the dry cleaners iron his shirts? Do we even have an iron?

Sherlock picked up the paper and read the headline. "Hero of the Reichenbach," it said, with the sub-heading, "Turner masterpiece recovered by 'amateur'". He threw the paper down on his bedside table in disgust, and flopped down onto the bed to wait for Rose. She eventually re-entered the room, wrapped in her dressing gown. She reached into her bag and retrieved two condom packets and placed them on the bedside table.

"I'm wearing my undergarments," she said, a glint in her eyes.

"Oh good," Sherlock replied, standing up. He was semi-aroused himself at the thought of his next challenge.

He had spent the last few days researching sexual arousal in females, once he'd finished with the Reichenbach case. He felt almost giddy with excitement at the prospect of putting into practise the knowledge he had obtained through careful study.

Rose made to unwrap her dressing gown, when Sherlock said, "No, don't! I'll do that!"

"Oh, okay," Rose replied, loosely tying up the sash. His enthusiasm took her by surprise.

Rose stood still, waiting for Sherlock's first move. She was confused when he walked slowly around her and stood behind her. Gently placing his hands on each of her arms, just below her shoulders, he drew her back into his body. With one hand, he carefully swept her hair aside, and bent his head. She could feel his breath on her neck, and once more, she closed her eyes and enjoyed his close touch. He then slid both hands down her arms, then over the fabric of her robe to her waist and the sash.

Sherlock was aware that his own heart rate was increasing and he made sure Rose could feel his hardness as he pressed against her. His hands found the sash and made light work of untying it. As Rose's robe fell open, he moved back slightly, and gently lifted the robe from her shoulders, letting it drop to the floor.

Sherlock then walked around to face Rose, drew her in close for an embrace, as he'd practised last time. He slipped his hands around to her back, one hand caressing her, the other feeling for the clasp at the back. It wasn't there! She'd tricked him! Without missing a beat, Sherlock's right hand caressed Rose's skin underneath her bra, sliding around her torso to the front. He felt in between her cleavage as Rose breathed out, stifling a laugh.

Sherlock tutted, them moved away slightly so he could look at the clasp.

"It's a different kind of hook!" he remarked irritably.

"Almost had it," encouraged Rose.

His hand still underneath Rose's cleavage, he deftly squeezed his thumb and index finger as the bra popped open. Rose gasped as Sherlock moved in closer yet again, his breath on her neck then...

... his hand stole up under the open bra, taking in her breast and massaging it as he started kissing her neck.

 _Oh my sweet Lord, no!_  thought Rose, her body trembling under his touch. Her hands automatically found his hair again. She lost herself in the moment. She needed more. More of him. She suddenly felt so electrified.

A soft moan escaped from her lips causing her to freeze and she pushed him away. "That's... that's enough now. Good, you undid the hook."

She turned from him and shed the bra.

Sherlock's voice took on a low, seductive timbre as he asked, "Don't I get to finish?" He knew what he'd done. He knew exactly what happened then, what had surged through her, making her shudder and gasp under his control. He was not going to point it out though.

"Let's start," Rose said, turning around again, but not meeting Sherlock's gaze. "Take your pyjamas off."

"I thought you were going to do that?"

"Um, yeah, maybe after...tea time."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at her. All her confidence was shot. He suddenly felt bad.  _Best continue in a more predictable fashion_ , he thought.  _Just for now_. But deep inside he wanted to yell, "I'm on fire!"

He swiftly removed his pyjamas as Rose took off her knickers. Sherlock lay down on the bed, expectantly, as if this were day one again.  _Let Rose take the upper hand - try again later,_  he mused.

They moved through Sherlock's phase one and phase two, finally arriving at phase three.

 _This is where I lost it_ , thought Rose as Sherlock re-entered her after they'd swapped positions.  _He's a client. A man who can't get a girlfriend, who's paying me to have sex with him. Paying me. He's paying for it. Because otherwise I wouldn't look at him twice, would I? Paying for it, Rose. Say it. And whatever you do, don't look into his eyes. Those...eyes._

_Oh!_

_God!_

And then Sherlock bent his head and was kissing her neck again, while he was fucking her. She lifted her chin, giving him more of an area to kiss. Offering herself to him. He was using his tongue as well.  _It feels so good... but...how? Has he been taking lessons from somebody else? The asshole!_

That was enough to bring Rose back to her senses. Kind of angry now, she couldn't enjoy herself. Shouldn't anyway. For fuck's sake, she was a professional.

_Who was Sherlock seeing? Not Maria. She wouldn't tolerate his rude demands. Not...Tessa? She was young and naive. Sherlock would confuse her with his intellect. Who then?_

Rose continued helping Sherlock with his phase three, more or less mechanically now that her mind was employed elsewhere. Sherlock, on the other hand, was bewildered. He thought it was going well - Rose was starting to respond...but now she was frowning. What happened?

He needed to increase his tempo now, for his own happy ending, but...Rose?

 _Oh!_ His mind raced through the list of erogenous zones.  _More breast action_ , he thought.  _Nipples too._

Rose wondered why Sherlock had slowed down a little. He began kissing her neck again, but then he slowly started navigating toward her chest as he rocked into her ever so gently.

 _Damn!_ Rose thought.  _Not Tessa then as she hates anyone doing..._

_...that..._

_...with their..._

_Oh, my Lord..._

_...tongue..._

Sherlock had pulled out of her as his escapades continued lower.

"Um...Sherlock?" Rose heard herself say - her voice seemed to come from far away.

"Sher—lock!"

"What's wrong?" He stopped his practical research and looked up at Rose.

Rose looked down at him. His hair was incredibly messy. How did it get that way? Oh, of course, Rose had gotten quite carried away.

"I've got to...ah...go to the bathroom. Sorry. Bathroom emergency."

"What?"

Sherlock moved aside so Rose could climb off the bed. She hurried into his ensuite, slamming the door behind her.

Sherlock wasn't stupid. He knew what had happened. Again. But then again, he was the idiot. He was the one left lying on his bed with an erection.

Rose put the lid down on the toilet seat and sat on top of it, holding her head in her hands.  _Fuck! I really need to get laid._  Not _with a client though, for fuck's sake!_

She just wanted to leave. She should leave. This was totally unprofessional, but so was leaving. Did Sherlock know what he was doing? Of course he must. He knew exactly what he was doing last week when he was sitting in his armchair and she was kneeling in front of him.

He knows now, and he's not saying anything. Because she told him not to say anything. She didn't say 'Don't turn me on,' because that's not forbidden. Getting aroused is purely her decision, and she'd lost it. No, Sherlock was definitely behaving within her guidelines: he didn't point out that she was aroused, thus making her feel uncomfortable. She was uncomfortable now, but that was her fault. And anyway, how did he suddenly get so skilled up?

Rose got up from her seat, and opened the bathroom door. Sherlock was just putting on his pyjama bottoms.

"Are you leaving?" he asked, voicing his concern.

Rose glared at him accusingly. "Who have you been fucking?"

Sherlock was taken aback. "What?"

"You've been having sex with someone else, haven't you?" she admonished.

He didn't answer immediately. He was studying her, trying to determine the cause of her ire.  _Oh course,_  he thought.  _I'm fucking good at this._  To Rose, he answered simply, "No."

"You have!"

"I think I'd know," he remarked, finding her frustration a small source of amusement.

Rose looked him up and down, with her hands on her hips. She didn't know what to think, but now she was unsure. She knew Sherlock didn't like anything that was different, so why would he find someone else to try out sex with?

"Well, I should just finish you off then," she concluded.

Sherlock was momentarily perplexed at her sudden change of heart. "What?"

"Just lie down."

"No. We're having sex. It's my turn," he protested. Then he thought to himself, this is too overwhelming for her. He should've started slowly - perhaps kiss her on the neck this week, flick his tongue over her nipples the next, leave off the pièce de résistance until later. "Just let me finish. I won't do anything ... extra."

He gazed at her, a mutual understanding passed between them.

"Okay," she conceded, moving over to the bed, and lying down in the middle of it again.

Sherlock removed his pyjamas and climbed back onto the bed, and Rose.

"Oh!" they both realised.

He'd removed the condom. Rose reached over for the second packet.  
Sherlock kept his promise. No optional extras for Rose.

* * *

"Have you given up Saturday nights now?" Sherlock asked Rose as they sipped their tea, seated in the armchairs in the living room during their 'tea break'.

"Ah, no. I haven't."

"Why not?" Sherlock asked, before he could decide whether that was a personal question or not.

"I'd have to give up the whole lot Cynthia said. So..."

"Back to dressing up and arresting punters with your fake police gear," Sherlock said, plain-faced, before taking a sip of his tea.

Rose laughed, in spite of herself. It was her fault, really. She couldn't tell Sherlock off for the personal nature of this discussion when she had brought him 'behind the scenes' at the brothel.

They chatted quite pleasantly about debts she had to pay off, and how she wasn't exactly 'rolling in it', an opinion Sherlock had voiced.

Sherlock wanted to probe further, despite the 'no personal details' restriction. He asked, "How hard was the decision to become a prostitute in order to pay off your debts?"

Rose paused. Should she answer? He knew so much already. "Surprisingly easy," she responded pensively, cradling her tea cup in both hands.

"Why?"

She tucked her legs in underneath her and stared into the fire before speaking. "A friend and I used to go out, you know, cruise the pubs and bars, flirting with guys to pay for our drinks." She chanced a look at Sherlock. He was frowning, in a disapproving way, Rose thought. She managed to continue, regardless. "Now and then, you know, you'd give them what they wanted, as a way of saying thanks. If they were cute, it didn't matter, if they weren't, well, you'd just make sure you'd had enough to drink to not care too much." The creases in Sherlock's brow became more pronounced. Rose concluded with, "Working in a brothel is not so different."

Sherlock didn't understand that mentality. He couldn't fathom the enormous amount of energy, time and money the general population expended in the pursuit of 'getting off'. So young men just had to buy Rose drinks in those early days. Now she dispenses with the alcohol and takes the money directly. There was one thing missing though.

"But then you're not drunk to take away the care factor," he observed.

She smiled at him. "I've learnt how to switch off," she replied coyly.

 _Have you?_  thought Sherlock, smiling smugly to himself.

"But how did you come upon the idea to work in a brothel?" he probed further.

"I was flat-sharing with two other girls. When Holly decided to move out, Shelley and I were left with more rent to pay. We couldn't get anyone else interested. Shelley started working for Mark and Cynthia—she'd heard about them through another friend. She gave me the idea."

"Shelley?"

"Shelley. My flatmate."

Quirking an eyebrow, Sherlock asked, "You used your flatmate's name as your alias?"

"Great idea, hey, 'John'?"

Sherlock huffed a small laugh.

"Must get confusing at the brothel when someone calls out for Shelley though?"

"No, she left before I started work there, and besides, she didn't use her own name either." Rose looked down, examining her tea cup in her lap. Her face momentarily clouded over as she continued. "She's working the streets now. She says it's easier than handing money over to the brothel owners. But I don't know." She looked back up at Sherlock, then gazed into the fire again. "I worry about her all the time. I could never do what she's doing."

Sherlock quietly observed Rose. "Working the streets?" he enquired.

"Mmm," she confirmed distractedly. Brightening she added, "She can get twenty pounds for a hand job or thirty pounds just for giving head."

"And how many of those would she churn through in an hour?"

Rose smiled.  _Churn through, interesting choice of words._  "I don't know. She's high most of the time she does it. Hey, she thinks someone's stalking her. Do you think we could hire you to check it out? Not like she can go to the cops or anything."

"Hire me?" Sherlock found the concept of being hired by a prostitute amusing.

"Well, she could probably pay you in kind...I'll get her to contact you?"

Rose stopped. This was probably the most personal conversation she'd had with Sherlock. Her barriers were almost non-existent today.  _See, that's what happens when you almost let a client give you an orgasm, Rose!_

Noting Sherlock's look of distaste, Rose hastily changed the subject, "Are you working on any new cases now?"

Sherlock told her briefly about the missing banker case, but chastised her when she started asking about John. "Don't get any ideas," he said firmly.

There was a mischievous glint in Rose's eyes as she stated, "Need to keep my options open."

Sherlock was having none of it. This was his flatmate, for Christ's sake. "I thought we agreed you wouldn't flirt with him?"

"Flirt, no. You didn't say anything about propositioning though," Rose stated with a playful smile.

"He won't be interested," Sherlock responded dismissively.

"Why not?"

"Strong moral fibre. I told you," he remarked through narrow eyes.

"And you don't have any morals?"

Sherlock sighed as he replied. "Morality is a set of beliefs based on principles of how people conduct themselves in interpersonal relationships and within society. My beliefs and John's beliefs are quite dissimilar. He believes in interpersonal relationships. I don't."

"I feel as if I'm in a philosophy lecture," she mused out loud.

"We're having a semi-intelligent discussion are we not?" Sherlock asked pointedly.

"That's right. And you're paying me for it, so I'd better get my intellectual head on."

Sherlock rolled his eyes at the notion. "Why must you swap? Can't you just be yourself?"

"I told you - I have to switch off sometimes. I can't bear all the slobbering and groping - fingers and hands and tongues licking and sucking and clawing at me. It fuckin' sickens me sometimes. I can't relax and be myself."

She stopped, taking in Sherlock's face. He'd gone paler than he normally was, his mouth set in a thin line and his eyes downcast. He stood up suddenly.

"Another tea?" he asked tonelessly.

"I...ah...if you are?"

Blood drained from Rose's face as Sherlock walked away from her. She suddenly realised what had just happened then.

_Dammit Rose! He thinks you're including his efforts in that little rant! You've hurt his feelings! I can't tell him I didn't mean him. That would be admitting I liked what he was doing - that I was aroused. But he's visibly upset!_

She stood up.  _Say something._

But Sherlock spoke first, from the kitchen. He placed his empty cup down onto the kitchen bench and spoke quite quickly without making eye contact, "You know, I think we'll finish up today. Our first session was quite intense, but don't worry, keep the full amount. I don't mind paying you for the minimum one hour."

He walked off into the bedroom, leaving Rose standing at the edge of the kitchen feeling like a twat. She walked quickly through the kitchen, following Sherlock into his bedroom. He had his wallet open and was plucking out a twenty pound note. Rose felt like the worst person in the world.

"Your tip," he said, holding up the note before tossing it lightly onto his bedside table.

She found her voice at last. "No, don't... leave a tip."

"Nonsense. This is business. If you've excelled at your job, you should be well compensated. I'll leave you to get dressed. Must get to work. I've got a kidnapped banker to find."

He left the room, closing the bedroom door behind him.

Rose sat on Sherlock's bed for a full minute, her head spinning. Why is she feeling so bad?  _He's a client! A client! A man who pays for sex. Just...just stop it, Rose. Stop feeling bad for the poor man. The poor, sad, man._

But he's not normally sad. He's usually full of confidence, even in the knowledge of his sexual inexperience, he was still confident and, dare she say it, arrogant. Willing to learn, to excel. How did he get so good, so quickly? And now she'd made him doubt himself. He probably thinks he's a drooling, groping, clumsy, sickening talentless fuck, when in fact he's just the opposite.

Rose looked over at the tip Sherlock had left - dumped onto a bedside table. That's what you do for hookers. Leave the cash. Walk out.

Rose was going to cry if she thought about this any longer. The sex was good, but the conversation was... he would say: disappointing. Yet he still tipped. That made her feel ten times, no, a hundred times smaller.

Rose cleaned herself up in the bathroom, then dressed slowly, the heavy feeling in the pit of her stomach weighing her down. She wouldn't accept the tip.

Rose had a whole day of lectures to face. Look on the bright side, she told herself. One hundred and eighty pounds for only half an hour's work. That's like: three hundred and sixty pounds an hour. She could be a high class escort at that rate!

But high class she wasn't.

The money was dumped on the table. She was a prostitute. A tom.

Here's your money.

Get dressed.

Leave.

Rose exited Sherlock's bedroom, her heavy bag of books slung over her shoulder. Sherlock was sitting at his living room table, still clad in his pyjamas, typing on a laptop.

With trepidation Rose spoke, "I guess I'll see you next week?"

"I'll text you if I require your services again," Sherlock replied impassively, staring at his screen and typing a little.

Rose's stomach dropped further. "Sherlock..."

"Pull the door shut quite firmly on your way out. It tends to stick a bit in this weather," he added, still peering at the screen.

Rose strode across the living room, unlatched the door, and left through it, slamming it along the way.

.

 


	10. Not Mounting Any Defence

"She had your email address on her. Just wanted to check if she was a client of yours?" Lestrade's voice continued in Sherlock's ear.

But his head was buzzing. His hand trembled as he held the phone out. A curious thing itself.

_Rose?_

It had been two weeks since their last liaison. He hadn't texted her for another appointment. He couldn't stomach it. Sherlock had to be the best at everything he tried. If he was going to be having sex regularly, then he had to be good at it. No, not just good, excellent. And he'd learnt through those first conversations with Rose that to be any kind of great lover you had to more than satisfy your sexual partner.

Rose had indicated that she'd found his efforts sickening, repulsive. Of course her heart rate could also rise if she was stressed at being placed in an uncomfortable situation. He was stupid.

_Stupid, stupid._

To think he could get Rose aroused. She wasn't trembling with desire, but cringing in disgust. He'd had a few quick wanks in the shower thinking about Rose. But he wasn't ever going to touch her again.

And now this.

This call from Lestrade. Straight off the back at having been made even more of a public figure. Another two presentation ceremonies - rewarded for helping the kidnapped banker to escape his captors, and netting interpol's most wanted in one fell swoop.

Sherlock had been hiding out in his flat. John had been chastising him for getting in the papers again.

"You're this far from famous," the doctor had said. "Find yourself a little case this week?"

Is this a little case? Identifying the body of a murdered prostitute? The murderer had already been caught. Nothing really for Sherlock to do, but go to the mortuary and confirm whether or not it was Rose.

Lestrade had said there was an inconsistency as to her identity. Some said Rose, others said Shelley.

There was only one Rose/Shelley who was a prostitute as far as Sherlock was concerned. Did she end up on the streets because she no longer had Sherlock's income? Did the brothel owners kick her out because they'd found out she had been seeing a client independently?

With a sickening feeling, Sherlock slowly wound his scarf around his neck. John had left for work. Today would normally have been his appointment with Rose had he made one. A morning round of sex. Now he was going to see her again, for one last time.

It was an odd feeling really. Sherlock sat pensively in the back of the taxi as it wound through the streets, taking him to St. Bart's hospital, and to Rose.

It wasn't as if he felt any emotional attachment toward her. He'd missed the sex, obviously - the conversation, yes. Her familiarity? He'd become comfortable with her. Was that an emotional attachment? How would he feel when Molly wheeled out her corpse? He'd seen a multitude of dead, naked women before. Would he scrutinise her features? Examine her skin, fingernails, bruising around her neck - for she had been strangled, Lestrade informed him. Strangled during sex in the back seat of the perp's car. The perp got off on that. That was his thing according to the other toms on the street. Asphyxiation. He'd gone too far on this occasion and hadn't released the grip on his tie in time. How much money had Rose negotiated for that?

Sherlock's eyes stung, and a lump came to his throat.

 _What just happened then?_ he thought, blinking rapidly.

Sherlock paid the fare, ignoring his unconscious physiological reaction and climbed from the taxi. He strode the familiar corridors of the hospital and made his way to the mortuary to meet the D.I. and Molly Hooper. He felt as though he needed a cigarette.

"Right, well there was no I.D. in her possessions," Lestrade began. "But was she a client of yours, this Shelley?"

"Rose," Sherlock corrected him as Molly rolled out the table.

"Uh, yes. Shelley was her real name according to some. She preferred to go by 'Rose' when working though. No I.D. so no address. Had a slip of paper in her handbag with your email address on it though."

 _Other way round,_ thought Sherlock. _Rose, not Shelley._

Molly unzipped the body bag and Sherlock took a sharp intake of breath at the rounded facial features, close set eyes and a shock of blonde wavy hair.

_Not Rose._

_Not -_

_\- Rose._

_This wasn't Rose!_

_Who was it?_

Sherlock's head spun as the confusion of names swam around him. _Shelley!_ Her real name was Shelley. She'd used 'Rose' as her alias, as her flatmate had done to her. As Sherlock had done to John.

_Not._

_Rose._

"Her name's Shelley," Sherlock stated, breathing out and stepping back from the body.

"We know," said Lestrade a little gruffly. "A client?"

"No. Potential client. Another...client had referred me and gave her my details. She never made contact with me. I can probably get a full I.D. from their flatmate, or you could try the Massage Parlour on Lyceum Street, North London," Sherlock said, speaking rapid-fire and relieved to be able to project indifference at last.

Lestrade cocked his head to one side. "A massage parlour on Lyceum Street? And you know this how?"

Sherlock's face remained impassive as he replied. "My clients are wide and varied and completely confidential, Detective Inspector. She used to work there. And so if you're finished with me?"

Sherlock turned and left when Lestrade turned back to Molly and nodded thanks. Striding down the corridor from the mortuary, Sherlock exhaled deeply.

_Not Rose._

_Rose was alive!_

Sherlock looked down at his phone, and checked his messages. There was one message from a contact he had called "Psych Student" which read, _Nice hat!_ Rose had sent that two days ago after those dreadful, embarrassing photos had appeared in the papers as a result of the Ricoletti presentation ceremony. Those bastards at Scotland Yard had humiliated Sherlock with a gift of a deerstalker hat. An ear hat!

Her message had arrived shortly after another one did, that had been sent by Irene Adler. _I like your new hat._

What was it with him and sex workers?

But Sherlock hadn't responded to either Rose's or The Woman's messages. He typed one to Rose now: _Contact me re: case, not appointment!_

Sherlock grabbed a cab back to Baker Street. He looked at his watch and found that it was after eleven. Rose was probably in a lecture, he thought, and she would only check her phone an hour before an appointment (which he didn't have), or intermittently throughout the day, she'd said - probably to keep in contact with the brothel owners regarding her schedule at Lyceum Street.

When she finally rang at around four, Sherlock tried to surreptitiously hasten to his bedroom in order to answer the call. John was lounging in the living room, reading the paper.

"What case?" was all she said, breathlessly, when he answered. It sounded as if she was walking around the campus or to the tube, possibly.

"We should meet somewhere. I shouldn't discuss it over the phone," he suggested in a low voice.

"What, why? Is this a..." she paused, whispering the last two words, "...sex thing?"

"What? No! Of course not," he snapped, but then softened a little when he realised it was a delicate matter he was ringing about, and that wasn't how _empathetic_ people behaved. "Look, where are you? I'll meet you. At university?"

There was a moment's silence as Rose considered her options. _Meet Sherlock in her normal, safe surroundings? A client? Here in her pristine, chaste life?_ "I'll meet you somewhere public. I don't think I should meet you anywhere I frequent in my personal life. That's too stalker-ish."

Sherlock paused at Rose's words. "You think I'm going to stalk you?" he asked, immediately taking offence.

"I don't know. Why do you want to meet me? I thought you were done with me."

"This has nothing to do with that," Sherlock remarked, his voice flat and unemotional.

"Oh..." Rose was silent for a moment as she thought to herself. "A case? Has this got to do with my psychology paper? Because I'm not writing that one anymore."

"No, it's not."

Silence filled the line once again while Rose's mind ticked over. "Then what?" she asked eventually. "We've only ever interacted with...those two things. Psychology and...", she lowered her voice again, "...sex."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, wanting to move on with delivering her news and to just yell it into the receiver, but he bit his tongue and said tonelessly, "I can't say...social customs dictate this isn't the type of news you deliver over the telephone."

"Social customs? News?" Sherlock could hear Rose's sharp intake of breath. "...oh God! Oh...Jesus...what are you saying? A case? ...oh my God... the...the unidentified prostitute that was murdered...the story in the paper. Is that what this is about? Oh Sherlock! Fucking hell." Rosie's voice was fraught with emotion now. "Thank you," she choked.

Then she hung up.

She'd made the connection, Sherlock concluded. _Took her time, but got there in the end and I didn't have to be the harbinger of doom,_ he thought in deep satisfaction. All her fears about her flatmate had been realized. Probably noticed she'd been missing, what was it now – forty-eight hours?

Should he ring her back?

_No._ _Not his place to._

He started to type a message for her: _Ring back. You need to identify the body._ Then he deleted it. Didn't sound quite appropriate. Lestrade will work it out or somebody would report Shelley missing even if Rose didn't.

_Not his problem._

Now, he had this two hundred year old mystery to solve: _Henry Fishguard - a suicide or not? Where is my trusty mannequin? Time for a hanging._

He spent a day consulting his _Bow Street Runners_ book and playing executioner's hangman, much to John's annoyance.

The next morning, as Sherlock was peering into his microscope on the dining table, Henry Fishguard's doppelganger swaying in the living room, his phone buzzed from the table next to his armchair. He walked over to check it. A message from Pysch Student: _Shelley is dead. I guess you knew that. Have just identified her body. I'm moving back in with my parents._

Sherlock deleted the message, then put his phone back down.

It buzzed again. _Could we meet?_ it read.

He didn't reply, deleted that message too and placed his phone back down on the pile of books. There was no need to see Rose again. He went back to his microscope and tried to ignore the next two texts as they were probably from the Psych Student also.

John strolled in, fresh from the shower as Sherlock's phone buzzed once more.

"It's your phone," John stated.

"Mm, keeps doing that," Sherlock replied, not taking his eyes from the microscope. _I'm done with you Rose_ , he thought. _We have nothing left to talk about._

* * *

Six weeks later Sherlock was holed up in his flat again. The Moriarty trial was in full swing, well perhaps not full swing - more like limp swing: the crown presenting Sherlock as their key witness, upon which he had been thrown in jail for contempt of court for most of yesterday, and then not permitted back in for the rest of the trial. And the rest of the trial was a joke. The defense was not calling any witnesses. As a result, this morning the verdict would be handed down.

Sherlock paced the room several times before taking to his couch once more. The ringing of his doorbell interrupted his thoughts. He listened as Mrs Hudson answered. _Probably somebody from the press again_ , he thought. _Fucking annoying. I can't even leave the flat these days without being hounded by someone._

But it wasn't the press this time.

"Hi!" Rose said, tentatively entering the room as Sherlock sat up again and glared at her. "Just thought I'd see how you were. I called round several times but there were always photographers outside, or you just didn't answer the doorbell. I lied to your landlady and said I was a client. Sorry."

"I didn't make an appointment," Sherlock stated simply.

"I know. You've been busy. I've been reading about it in the papers. The verdict is being handed down today, yeah?"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at her. He wasn't in the mood. "What do you want?"

"To see how you were."

"Why? You don't do anything unless there's something in it for you. Come to look at the Reichenbach Hero, have you?" he asked her sullenly.

"I just thought, when this is all over you might like some relief again? An outlet for all your pent up energy, or a release from the stress of the trial?"

Sherlock had to hand it to her. For all his glaring she was still smiling at him pleasantly.

"For a tidy sum of one hundred and eighty pounds? Forget it. I don't carry that amount of cash on me anymore. And besides, I thought you were living back with your parents?"

Rose shrugged. "Didn't work out. It never works out. I've got a new flatmate, in a dismal, shitty flat really. Still tough to make ends meet though." Her smile faltered a little. "I'm not at the brothel anymore. They kicked me out for trying to steal one of their clients. Businessman. Loads of money."

Sherlock shrugged and raised his eyebrows in a 'not my problem' kind of gesture.

"Can't I ... apologise or something?" she suddenly blurted out.

"Apologise for what?" Sherlock asked, his brow furrowed out of annoyance.

Rose took a deep breath and sighed. She tried to smile again despite Sherlock's unfriendly demeanour. "I know I offended you the last time. But I wasn't referring to you at all."

Sherlock's granite face seem to soften ever so slightly. He asked, "And to whom were you referring?"

"The others."

 _I knew it,_ Sherlock thought smugly. _I was getting fucking good at...er...fucking._ "And your apology will take the form of...?"

"Whatever you like," Rose said pleasantly.

 _Oh, that again._ "I'm really not in the mood."

Rose stepped closer to Sherlock and raised a seductive eyebrow. "I'll put you in the mood."

Sherlock scoffed. "The verdict will be handed down any minute now."

"And then you can celebrate with me," she said encouragingly.

"Commiserate, more likely."

"How do you know?"

"Because I can read it like it's all written out before me."

Sherlock sat back and stretched his legs out along the couch. He closed his eyes. Rose perched herself on the side of the coffee table.

"Just let me..." she said, resting her hand lightly on Sherlock's thigh.

Sherlock opened one eye. "What?"

"Take your mind off it for a minute or two."

Sherlock opened both eyes. "I told you I don't have any cash on me."

"An apology, and a gesture of goodwill."

He thought for a moment. It would be good to take his mind off this whole business - for a minute or two. John was at the courthouse. He'd be away for ages. And Rose's presence and close proximity, and scent, made him just...

Sherlock could already feel a ripple of pleasure ease through him.

"Gesture away," he murmured, closing his eyes again. "But be quick and then leave."

Rose unzipped Sherlock's trousers as she asked, "How can you read what the verdict is going to be?"

Sherlock opened his eyes again. "It will start with the judge's recommendation," he whispered, as Rose's hand set to work.

"Which will be what?" Rose whispered, her hand finding a good rhythm, as she felt Sherlock's arousal growing.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Sherlock intoned, "James Moriarty stands accused of several counts of attempted burglary, crimes which, if he is found guilty, might elicit a very strong custodial sentence, and yet his legal team has chosen to offer no evidence whatsoever to support their plea.."

Rose listened intently as she continued masturbating him.

Sherlock continued, "I find myself in the unusual position of recommending a verdict wholeheartedly. You must find him guilty."

He closed his eyes as Rose bent down and took Sherlock in her mouth. "Guilty," he whispered.

He kept his eyes closed, the case almost gone from his mind as he tangled his hands in Rose's hair. _Just a few minutes,_ he thought. _Just a few minutes. Oh, Rose._ His breathing grew shallow and ragged. He moaned and caressed the back of Rose's neck.

_So good..._

He had never let her finish him off so completely in this way before, and he wasn't going to stop her now. He'd forgotten about this. Forgotten over the last two months how wonderful the act of sex and Rose's sexual favours could be. His mind quietened at last, blanking out the last remaining thoughts as all receptors stood by for the final assault on his sensory systems. With a final moan, he climaxed, waves of ecstasy flowing over him during which he gasped 'Rose'. As the waves turned to ripples and then finally just a slight tingling sensation he gently moved her away from him, opening his eyes once more.

Sherlock pulled his boxers up, zipped up his trousers and said one word, "Leave."

Sherlock closed his eyes again, still breathing deeply as he heard Rose straighten her clothes and pick up her bag. He listened to her footsteps descend the stairs and finally the sound of the front door opening and closing. As his breathing returned to normal, the silence in the flat was broken by the ringing of his phone. He opened his eyes and reached for it from where it had rested on the coffee table beside him.

"Not guilty," came John's voice. "They found him not guilty. No defence and Moriarty's walked free."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes. You all need to rewatch the verdict scene in TRF, with this scenario in mind ;) It works! I promise!


	11. We're Both Defrocked

He made the appointment three weeks after the verdict and Moriarty's visit. He'd waited. Waited for something to happen—for Moriarty to show his hand, for unseen gunmen to focus their laser pointers at his chest, for bombs to explode around him, room by room. But there was nothing.

And life almost went back to normal in Baker Street. Stiflingly dull in some instances.

One morning Sherlock lay back thinking about Rose. And sex. She had texted him two weeks ago, the week after her pre-verdict head job. Her message simply stated, "I'm available."

_Available._

_Available to be booked in._

_Haircut at one, teeth cleaned at two, fucked by a prostitute at three._

And Sherlock reflected on the fact that he did enjoy it, or more to the point, the challenges he'd begun setting himself. And not to mention the post-sex conversations. They weren't dull in their entirety. So how to progress this? His next challenge, therefore, was to negotiate with Rose how he could practise being a more effective sexual partner. And that required her full cooperation. He couldn't go about this by stealth, because they'd end up in stops and starts as they'd had been previously, with Rose becoming aroused, freaking out when she realised this, then Sherlock having to talk her round. That would become very tiresome, very quickly.

Rose had apologised during that last very brief encounter, although Sherlock wasn't completely naïve as to believe that she wasn't just going through the motions in order to win back his custom. But also, egotistically, he couldn't fully believe that he was that hopeless or repulsive in the sack. Modest? He really wasn't.

So, step one: contact Rose. Step two: negotiate a new set of boundaries. Step three: fuck.

Rose had agreed to meet Sherlock in a coffee shop, neutral ground, so that she wouldn't feel he was bullying her in any way. This was a negotiation meeting, not an appointment. Sherlock would only have to pay for the coffee, or tea. No biscuits.

"I'm not sure what we're negotiating," Rose began, as she stirred sugar into her coffee.

"A new set of boundaries, as I mentioned on the phone," Sherlock stated simply.

"But why?"

"Things have changed between us."

Rose gulped down her coffee. How much had he noticed, she wondered.

"Like what?" she asked.

Sherlock leant forward and lowered his voice, "Look, you know perfectly well that I'm trying to up my game here. So I would appreciate it if you'd not hold back. Just join in, and enjoy it. You might even have fun."

"What?"

"Let yourself get aroused," he said, trying to keep his voice low.

Rose looked around, then she too, leant in and whispered, "I can't. It's not fair."

"Why not? I've said before, you can't be successful in a job if you don't enjoy yourself. What's the big deal anyway?"

Rose's insides churned monstrously. It was out of guilt, she knew this. She dropped her gaze as she said, "It's just that I'd rather save all that for someone special."

Sherlock scrutinised her and noticed the way she was fiddling with her pendant. "Your boyfriend? I thought you didn't have one."

Sherlock's words startled Rose. She stammered, "What makes you think I have one now?"

"Pendant," was his simple answer.

Rose shrugged and tried to act nonchalant. "Well he's away, but he'll be back the week after next for two weeks."

"Armed forces," Sherlock concluded.

"Yes."

"So he has a weapon of some description," Sherlock remarked, raising an eyebrow.

Rose seemed to find this funny, much to Sherlock's bemusement.

Sherlock took a sip of his coffee and asked, "And what does he think about your part-time job?"

Rose wasn't aware that she began fiddling with her pendant again as she answered Sherlock. "He doesn't know. I don't work when he's in town."

Sherlock glanced about him, deep in thought. He refocussed his gaze back to Rose and asked, "So you'll be unavailable for two weeks, starting the week after next?"

She nodded. "That's right."

"And our arrangement?" he asked expectantly.

Rose sighed. This was too much. Surely he was crossing the line. Was there a line? Yes there definitely was. But she had created the boundaries herself. Half her co-workers in the brothel hadn't cared whether they became aroused or not. Some even kept a tally of how many orgasms they'd received with a client. But she had always maintained a detached air.

"I can't," she said. "I just simply can't."

"Then we have no arrangement." Sherlock stood up and adjusted his jacket. "Have a good life!" Then he bent down to Rose and whispered, "Have a cream puff on me."

"Sherlock!"

He stopped, and raised his eyebrows.

"Sit."

"Why?" His face took on a look of defiance, reminiscent of a petulant child.

"You need to give me a minute. Stop thinking everybody can come to a decision as quickly as you. Those of us with some morals need time to reassess."

"Morals?"

And when Rose's expression remained unchanging, he took his seat and asked, "What's to assess? It's a simple yes or no answer. Have sex with me and completely be yourself and relax, or don't."

Rose hated this dilemma. It wasn't like she had morals of a high standard.

"But if I don't," she retorted, "then you won't want to see me."

"Precisely. I don't want sex for the sake of sex. I want to learn something, challenge myself, become..."

"The best?"

"More skilful," he said, but he actually thought along the same lines that had been vocalised by Rose. _The best._ When Rose focussed on her coffee, looking rather doubtful, he added, "And I'm just asking you to enjoy the physicality of it. I'm not asking for your hand in marriage. Save that for your boyfriend."

Rose started at the casual way Sherlock had mentioned marriage. Between her boyfriend and herself, that was the furthest thing from their minds. Just holding it together was their main challenge. Sherlock did have a point. Enjoy the physicality. There are no emotions involved when he explained it that way. That's all Rose was concerned about really. And she had been almost enjoying that aspect of their encounters.

"Two hundred pounds," she ventured.

Sherlock's broad grin stated that the deal was struck, and so their first appointment was made for the very next morning—their usual time. The time when John was at work. Sherlock was impatient to get started, and Rose really needed the money.

* * *

When Rose entered the flat that morning, her stomach was full of butterflies. It was less like a job now, she thought. It was more like a first date, or losing her virginity.

Sherlock, on the other hand, was in his element. A challenge. An experiment. He was in control now. Although he noticed Rose was less chatty as she entered, and tense.

"How do you want me?" she asked, after Sherlock had handed over the two hundred quid. They stood in Sherlock's bedroom. "Naked, robe, underwear?"

"Oh, just the same. Dressing gown, undergarments," he answered. "Or can I take those clothes off?" he asked, waving his hand at her.

"No. These are my clothes. I don't want you touching them." Then when Sherlock looked offended she added, "I need to dress for my work, so if you want to undress me, then I'll have to bring something to change into that you can take off. We don't start until I emerge from the bathroom anyway. I have other things to... take care of."

"Oh," Sherlock remarked, not fully understanding. _Sounds very inefficient._

Rose disappeared into the bathroom while Sherlock sat on the bed.

"That guy's disappeared, hey?" Rose called through the door.

"Guy?"

"The one on trial. The paper said he'd disappeared."

 _Moriarty_ , thought Sherlock. _Not the image I want to conjure up just before having sex._

"Can we talk about something else?" he called back.

There was silence for a moment, then Rose called out, "How's John?"

Sherlock sighed. "How about silence until you come out of there?"

Sherlock sat back feeling irritated and apprehensive. _Moriarty. What's he planning? I-O-U he had carved into that apple. Flying is just like falling. I detest riddles!_

"What are you thinking about?"

Rose was standing near the bed, watching him. He hadn't noticed her coming back in. She had already placed a couple of condom packets on the bedside table.

"Nothing."

"You were tapping your fingers on your knee, like you were annoyed about something. Look, if it's the clothing, I can bring some for next time, yeah? I just don't feel comf—"

"It's not the clothing. It's not you."

Sherlock got off the bed and stood up. He looked at Rose and smiled weakly. "Let's just start."

"What do you want me to do?" Rose whispered as Sherlock closed the gap between them.

"Whatever you feel like," he whispered back, putting his arms lightly on hers, and drawing her in to kiss her neck.

 _Whatever I feel like._ Rose closed her eyes then put her arms around Sherlock's neck. _I feel like kissing you, when you do that. On the lips._ She held him tighter, feeling his light kisses along her neck, feeling the goose bumps that were forming and the shiver run down her spine when he let his hand wander. _Whatever I feel like doing. I don't know. How can I relax?_

She felt she couldn't enjoy his attentiveness without letting him into her heart. It all sounded great in theory: just enjoy the physicality of it. This wasn't working for her. She couldn't separate them when it came to Sherlock. That was her problem, and hers alone. How could she possibly relax? And in thinking how to relax, Rose was of course, not relaxed. Sherlock felt her tension and stopped what he was doing.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

"I...I don't know. Sorry. It's not you. It's...you know when people tell you to relax, you can't? Or calm down, when you're angry and it only makes you angrier?"

Sherlock had a slight panicky feeling that he had done something really wrong. "Are you angry with me?" he asked with trepidation.

"No, not... not angry. I just feel...lost. Like I can't do my job."

Sherlock felt relieved but a bit disappointed. "Do you want to start the way we normally do?"

Rose thought for a minute. "Why don't we just lie down and chat? You always make me feel relaxed when we talk."

"Do I?" Sherlock asked in surprise. "That's not what people normally say."

Rose gave him an encouraging smile, then walked around to the other side of the bed and lay down, waiting for Sherlock.

 _My talking makes her feel relaxed,_ he thought. _Is there something wrong with her?_

He climbed onto the bed, then lay down as Rose had. They both lay on their sides facing each other.

"Please don't ask about the trial, or John. Not my favourite pre-sex subjects."

Rose laughed. "Oh, you have favourite pre-sex subjects now?" When Sherlock frowned at her she continued, "What's your favourite pre-sex subject?"

Sherlock studied Rose's face for a moment, then whispered hoarsely, "You."

Without thinking, Rose reached out and stroked Sherlock's face. "That's sweet," she whispered.

She continued to caress his face as Sherlock closed his eyes. _This is very relaxing,_ Sherlock thought. It felt good, in a non-sexualised way. Someone is touching him and he doesn't mind.

Rose leant closer and kissed his forehead, then continued kissing his face, pausing at his lips. _No, don't Rose. That's stepping over the line._

Sherlock interrupted her internal debate by rolling onto his back. He brought his hand up to encourage Rose to move over closer to him. He opened his eyes again as Rose leant in to kiss his neck. A warm sensation rippled threw Sherlock and he let his hands wander over Rose's back, then around to the front of her dressing gown, yearning to see her, to feel her once more. He eased the gown open so he could slip his hand inside, gently caressing her cleavage, then along the outline of her breasts, taking his time as if cataloguing every rise and dip, noting the silkiness of her skin under his fingertips, and the catch in her breath in response. It was like music to his ears.

Rose had slipped her hands underneath Sherlock's pyjama shirt. She pushed it up so she could lazily kiss his chest and torso.

"Mmm," Sherlock murmured, his eyes darkened by arousal. His fingers drifted to Rose's dressing gown sash which he tugged at impatiently.

Rose paused her gentle kissing and sat up, helping Sherlock untangle the sash around her waist. As the dressing gown fell open, Sherlock half sat up too, pulling Rose in closer by slipping his hand inside the gown around to her back. He brought his lips to her chest, and began kissing her there as Rose let out a gasp. She surprised herself at this involuntary sound, and immediately felt self-conscious.

"Don't tense up again," Sherlock whispered. And he lay back down, taking in the vision of Rose sitting next to him with her gown open.

"I'm sorry," Rose whispered, slipping the gown from her shoulders as Sherlock watched, his eyes glistening with need. "Here, take your shirt off," Rose said encouragingly.

Sherlock sat up, and pulled his shirt over his head. Rose pushed him down again, then sat up on her knees, moving over to straddle Sherlock as her own impatient desires overtook her. She caressed his chest again, then bent down to kiss him there using more of her tongue this time.

A small fire was ignited, beginning in Sherlock's loins, but burning his skin wherever Rose nipped and sucked. She paused on each nipple as Sherlock hummed with pleasure and wound his hands into Rose's hair. He slid his hands down her neck to her back and with the swift movements of the expert he now was, he unclasped her bra. Rose sat back so that Sherlock could slide his hands up to her shoulders, and down her arms, bringing the bra straps with them. She noted the urgency in his hands and the tiny smile of satisfaction which tugged at the corners of his mouth. Rose discarded the bra then resumed her kissing.

"Take these off," he murmured, shoving his thumbs inside his pyjama waistband.

Rose climbed off him as he pulled his pyjama pants down and threw them onto the floor.

 _Of course he's fully aroused these days,_ Rose thought, slightly proud of her achievement at getting Sherlock to this stage, reflecting on his demeanour during those first few visits so long ago.

Sherlock sat up and put his hands lightly on Rose. He deliberately pitched his voice low and commanded, "Lie down."

A shudder ran threw Rose, but she lay down feeling very much like a virgin. Sherlock was already upon, her - kissing along her neck again, then slowly working his way down her chest, his breath warming her skin, until he reached her breasts. He lingered there, and teased her nipples with his tongue as Rose moaned, not caring that she was now so vocal. She noticed one of his hands lightly gliding down her midriff as he worked her breasts with his mouth. His hand slid inside her knickers and between her legs, tantalising her until she gasped his name.

This only encouraged him more, his kisses exploring and teasing her until she was trembling with desire. He began edging down her underwear, whispering, "Off," as Rose lifted her hips, helping Sherlock to discard her knickers.

Rose panicked. _What's he going to do?_ she thought, as his attention remained focussed there.

But he seemed to know where to pleasure her as Rose groaned and clutched at his hair. _Oh my God, oh my God!_ she breathed. She grabbed the pillow above her head and arched her back as Sherlock showed her his new found skills with his tongue. _Love my job,_ thought Rose. _Just today. Just ... oh ...my sweet Lord..._

And then he stopped, and was coming back up.

"Condom," he whispered.

"Now?" Rose asked feebly.

But Sherlock had already stretched over to the bedside table and passed Rose the packet.

"Is that okay? Are you all right?" he asked, his words tumbling out as Rose breathlessly ripped the packet open.

"I'm doing really well," she sighed, breathing heavily and looking up at him with a shy smile. "You're a very good student."

Sherlock beamed, his cheeks slightly flushed, and lay on his side giving Rose access to roll the condom onto him.

"Try this way," Rose suggested. She lay on her side with her back to Sherlock, bending one leg forward.

"Um..." he hesitated. "I thought no...?"

"No! God no! You can enter from behind. Not... there...look," and she leant back into Sherlock and guided him with her hand.

"Oh..." Sherlock sighed. _Awkward angle,_ he thought, thrusting slightly.

"Mmmm," Rose murmured. "You can do... this," she reached back and grabbed Sherlock's hand, bringing it around her and between her legs. "Just there," she sighed. Sherlock worked his hand as he thrust inside her.

After a minute or two, Sherlock pulled out.

"No, can't do it," he muttered. "My legs hurt."

"Okay, that's fine," Rose said softly, her head still buzzing, not to mention everywhere else.

She rolled onto her back as Sherlock organised himself on top of her.

"I'm sorry," he whispered.

Rose lifted her hips, and put her arms around Sherlock, pulling him down to her, "Keep going, don't stop."

She cradled him between her legs and Sherlock moaned as he re-entered her.

"Sherlock," Rose murmured as she found her hands wandering through his dark curls again. She liked this, being able to sigh his name. Let herself go. Hold him to her.

"Rose," he gasped into her neck, sending further shivers throughout her body.

Rose angled her hips so she could feel Sherlock against her, but it wasn't enough. Sherlock was already moaning and had increased his rhythm, his breath ragged against hers. Rose was not even close. She knew it would end too soon.

Sherlock clung to her as he gasped her name once more, then gently rocked into her, riding out the waves of his orgasm. He collapsed on top of her, and she held him tightly, wanting to feel him breathing heavily against her.

"Rose," he said, rising himself up onto his elbows. "You didn't?"

"I didn't finish. It's okay! It's hard to get the timing right."

"But, you're not...I should do something."

"No, just lie back... enjoy the moment," she said, lightly pushing against Sherlock's chest so he would roll off her.

He rolled to his side, then put his arm around her waist. "Let me use my hand, or my tongue, or something."

"Not now.. no. It's... it's finished. Just lie back. Next time, okay? We'll try again then. It's fine, Sherlock. Even boyfriends of mine can't get the timing right."

Sherlock lay flat on his back, one hand on his chest as he continued to breathe heavily.

"But I'm not just anyone," he muttered sullenly.

Rose looked over at him. He really is competitive!

She watched his chest rising and falling. She wanted to reach out and hold his hand, but that seemed too intimate. After a minute or two he turned his head, noticing Rose watching him. She smiled.

"You were good," she said.

"Was I?" he was surprised.

"Mmm," she answered, feeling very relaxed - almost sleepy.

He looked at her suspiciously. "You're not just saying that... as a part of your.." he waved his hand, "...act?"

Rose gave Sherlock a stern look. "I've respected your wishes to not bullshit you. I'm not going to start now!"

"Oh," Sherlock replied, looking away from Rose. "Good."

Then he sat up and swung his legs off the bed. "I'm going to clean up."

Rose watched him leave, then got off the bed herself. She found her robe and wrapped it around herself and made her way into the kitchen. When Sherlock emerged from the bathroom, he found the bed empty and heard the sound of tinkling cups and saucers in the kitchen.

 _Tea time,_ he thought.

He walked through the kitchen as Rose looked up and smiled at him. "Take a seat," she said, "I'll just be a minute. Did you want biscuits?"

"No, John ate them all," Sherlock replied, walking over to the living room and sitting down in his armchair. It felt a bit odd playing guest in his own flat.

He looked over at Rose. He'd almost given her an orgasm. Almost. Then he concentrated on his own enjoyment. _That's what she was talking about. Being a good lover. How well you pleasure you sexual partner. Dammit._ He'd been that close.

Rose brought the tea over, then sat down in John's armchair.

"We should have a toast!" she said.

"With tea?"

"Well, it's too early for champagne. But we need to toast to our first real sexual encounter."

Rose raised her tea cup and sipped it.

"Real," Sherlock repeated. "Was that as real as it gets for you?"

Rose put her cup down. "Very close. There's only one thing missing, and you can't have that."

"What?" asked Sherlock, poised for a bombshell.

"My kisses. On the lips. You can't have that."

"Oh," he commented, almost rolling his eyes at what he considered a trivial part of intimacy. "I know that."

"But apart from that," Rose began, "You'll be just about ready to conquer the world."

"Conquer?"

"The world of women. Dating."

"Uh. No. That's still not going to happen. There's all this..." he winced, "Other stuff that goes with dating. I'm not going to bother with all that."

Rose laughed. "You and most other guys. So how's John?"

"Why do you keep asking about John?"

"I like John. He's nice. I'm sure he'd be very generous too."

"I've already told you several times that he wouldn't be interested. He's after a wife, and a house with a picket fence. Not a call girl who puts a meter on her company."

"Well, I can be anything he wants me to be. Where's his room anyway? Or do you share?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "We're not in a relationship. His bedroom is upstairs, and no, you can't go and look at it and roll around his bed like some pyscho stalker chick."

Rose laughed again, standing up. "Does he take girlfriends up there? Do you hear them sometimes?"

"Not answering," Sherlock replied. "On the grounds that this conversation is boring me."

Sherlock continued sipping his tea as Rose wandered around the room, looking at Sherlock's collections.

"Oh! I saw this in the paper!" she remarked, picking up Sherlock's deerstalker hat from its pride of place - dumped on the floor. She put it on. "Ah!" she said, giggling and looking at herself in the mirror about the fireplace.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Take if off. It's ridiculous."

"It's cute! Especially when you wear it - here." She moved over to Sherlock's chair, holding out the hat.

"No!" Sherlock called, standing up and dodging Rose's outstretched hand.

"Oh," Rose pouted, returning the hat to her own head. "I'll wear it then. Do you want me to wear it to bed?"

"No! Are you insane?"

"Why not? Completely naked, except for this." She turned to look into the mirror again.

"No. Take it off. You remind me of someone repulsive."

"Excuse me?"

Sherlock strolled over to Rose as she skipped over to the coffee table. "Nope," she said mischievously. "Tell me who's so repulsive wearing your hat?"

"A journalist, disguising as a fan. Not my hat. She bought her own. Here..."

Sherlock held out his hand to retrieve the hat, but Rose stepped up onto the coffee table, laughing. "A journalist!"

"Take it off Rose!" Sherlock said irritably, walking up to the coffee table.

"Nope!" she teased, stepping back onto the couch.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at her, then stepped up onto the coffee table and onto the couch. Rose took the hat off her head and held it out behind her. Sherlock grabbed Rose by the robe and pulled him close to her. He reached up and grabbed the hat out of her hand, and threw it to the ground.

"Why are you doing this," he asked, his face only inches from hers.

"Because it's funny," she whispered, gazing into his cold, piercing grey eyes.

Sherlock looked into Rose's eyes, then he glanced at her slightly parted lips. His eyes returned to hers again as he closed the gap between them by just a centimetre. Rose moved her head back minutely.

"No," she whispered.

"What?" he asked, his voice deepening.

"No kissing," she stated.

Sherlock's face hardened as turned and stepped off the couch. "No hat wearing!" he exclaimed and stalked back to his armchair. "Drink your tea, it's going cold."

Rose lightly stepped off the couch and returned to her chair.

"What should we talk about now?" she asked, politely as if nothing had happened.

"Your boyfriend," Sherlock stated.

"What about him?"

"How would he feel if he found out about your job?"

"Murderous," Rose said matter-of-factly.

"To you or me?"

"Both."

"A murdered prostitute and her client. Straightforward case. Bit obvious," Sherlock muttered, but then he caught himself as he took in the look of Rose's face.

She was looking down at the fireplace, trying not to cry. _Damn Shelley,_ Rose thought.

"Rose," Sherlock said softly.

Rose quickly wiped her eyes. "I'm okay. I spent a whole week crying continuously about Shelley. I couldn't even tell my parents why I was so upset about moving out of our flat. Now my mum thinks I was in a lesbian relationship with her and we broke up." She tried to laugh.

She stood up. "Tea time's over."

Rose walked over to Sherlock as he put his cup down on a side table. She turned and sat back into his lap and he moved to accommodate her. "Let me show you something," she whispered, settling in with her back resting against Sherlock's right side. She grabbed his right hand, and placed it between her legs. "Now just gently..." she guided Sherlock's finger tips and began massaging herself with them.

She leant her head back into his shoulder and said, "You're going to do that until I come. Okay?"

"Mmm," Sherlock murmured, agreeing, but becoming only too aware of his own arousal growing.

He slid his left hand into Rose's gown to the swell of her breasts, caressing her there too, as she raised her arm and reached around to the nape of his neck.

Sherlock breathed lightly against Rose's neck, cooling her and sending shivers along her skin, her body already alight in response to Sherlock's rhythmic handiwork. And Sherlock didn't need to feel Rose's pulse of check her pupils. Her arousal was obvious. She was moving her body along with his hands, and sighing as well as winding her fingers through the back of his hair.

"Sherlock," she whispered softly. She turned her head and lightly kissed his neck. He thought he could just turn his head and she'd be kissing him. He didn't know why he just had to kiss her. _Why would that make a difference?_ he thought.

Rose brought her hand down and raked it along Sherlock's pyjama'd thigh.

"Faster," she whispered, then she moaned. "Oh God... Sherlock..."

Her hand found the bulge in Sherlock's pyjamas. His desire had already pooled there as he watched her come undone in his arms. He longed for her to touch him there. Her writhing body was such a turn on for him. And there it was! The answer to Rose's second ever question to him, "What turns you on?"

_You, Rose. You do._

Rose rubbed an urgent hand against him, but it was a feeble attempt for the sex worker to offer anything back at this stage for she was already overcome by her own sweet release. It hit her hard, and she removed her hand and once again it found the back of Sherlock's head. She grabbed him there as she gasped his name and rocked along with his hand, her satisfaction petering out to a gentle throbbing.

She kissed his neck as she turned and cuddled into him. "Thank you," she whispered.

But that just left Sherlock with his own hard on.

He held her tightly as she nestled into his neck, kissing him again there. _I'll just turn my head_ , he thought. _Kiss her. She won't mind now. Kiss her!_

But he couldn't. That would betray her trust. That was the one last thing she had.

So he held her still, until he felt her moving off him.

"Come on," she said breathily, standing up and re-wrapping her dressing gown around her. "Let's go finish you off."

Sherlock held Rose's hand as she led him back to his bedroom.

And Rose gave him the full apology, being sorry for having him miss out on the armchair session.


	12. Goodbye, Mr Holmes

"I've just had the most odd encounter," John remarked, striding into the living room, upon finishing work for the day.

"Don't tell me," Sherlock intoned and not looking up from his laptop. "You were kidnapped by one of Mycroft's sexy assistants and ravished in the back of a black unmarked government vehicle."

John cleared his throat, a sure sign that he was struggling to come up with the right words. Sherlock slowly looked up in curiosity when the doctor failed to chuckle dryly in response to the detective's deadpan.

"Er...not actually far from the mark."

"What?" Sherlock asked, a note of incredulity creeping into his voice as he shut his laptop lid. This was a new one, even for Mycroft.

"That young woman...that student...Shelley. Remember? She was writing a paper about your cases."

Sherlock tensed upon hearing Rose's sex worker alias. He lowered his voice a notch and asked, "What did she want?"

"I think she was asking me to give her money to go on a date with her."

John's words circled around Sherlock's head, not really making sense.

"Sorry, what?" he said again.

"Shelley, that psychology student. She was downstairs...just passing, she said. Did she come up here?"

"No," Sherlock stated emphatically.

It had been three weeks since he'd given Rose an orgasm. The following week he had to travel to Cornwall for a small case and hadn't booked in another appointment with Rose that week. There wasn't any other suitable day when John was out of the flat. Then she'd said her boyfriend was in town for two weeks, so he hadn't even bothered contacting her. He was toying with the idea of texting her after having three spontaneous erections in as many days (thankfully he was alone and in his flat on each occasion), but now this.

"Oh, well, she was making small talk," John continued, "implying we should go out for a drink sometime, then she hit me up for fifty quid."

"To go out with her?" Sherlock asked slowly.

"No, I think she wanted to borrow it, but then it was heavily implied that we could have more than just drinks as a result."

Thoughts flitted through Sherlock's mind. _Heavily implied?_ Rose would've had to be as subtle as a sledgehammer before John Watson even had an inkling as to what was happening, even for a man who actively sought out the opposite sex.

So what is she up to? Then he remembered his eager-to-date flatmate and John's stupid decisions when it came to dating. He narrowed his eyes as he asked, "Did you give her the money?"

"No, I don't have any cash on me...n-not that I would have," John hastily added.

"And what's this got to do with Mycroft?"

"What? Oh. Nothing."

"So why did you say I wasn't far from the mark?"

"Because," John began, slowly, deliberately, as if Sherlock could get the wrong end of the stick at any moment. "I was being flirted at by a... fairly attractive woman?"

"Oh," Sherlock said, grateful that his brother hadn't hired a prostitute to seduce John Watson for whatever reason.

"And she said we should all go out some time," John continued. "The three of us—meaning you as well, and she left it at that. Has she been in contact with you since she was last here?"

"No," Sherlock replied a little too hastily, opening his laptop lid again. He clenched his jaw. Rose was propositioning John. Was Sherlock not enough for her? No. Wait. It was the _money_ she was after. Not Sherlock's company. How could he make such a mistake? And what did he care anyway.

"Mmm," John remarked pensively, jolting Sherlock out of his thoughts. "Just be wary of her if she does."

John left to retire to his room as Sherlock pulled out his phone from his pocket. He stared at Rose's contact number for a moment, wondering why this bothered him so much. She was a prostitute. An independent business woman. She could be fucking the entire C.I.D of Scotland Yard for all he cared, but his flatmate was off limits, surely?

Before thinking too much longer about it, Sherlock sent a message to Rose which read, _Need to talk. NOT an appointment. Usual day & time. Baker St or a coffee shop of your choice._

Then he left it there. He received a reply two hours later. _Baker St,_ it said.

* * *

Sherlock was surprised by Rose's appearance when he answered the door that morning. Her face was unusually pale and thin. Her eyes were red, as if she'd been crying. Nor did she smell like her usual well-groomed self.

"Why isn't this an appointment?" she asked as soon as she was inside.

"Upstairs," Sherlock hissed, then he ascended the stairs rapidly, with Rose struggling to keep up behind him.

He stood at his living room door, waiting for Rose to enter, then he shut it behind her.

"Why were you propositioning John?" he began, his voice struggling to remain even.

"What? Is that what this is about?" Rose fiddled with the strap on her bag and shifted uneasily. "That's none of your business. What I do in my own time has nothing to do with you."

"We had an agreement," he stated, giving her a baleful glare.

"No, we didn't. You said not to flirt with him! Those were your words. I said I was going to proposition him, and you didn't voice any objection only to say he wouldn't be interested."

"I thought you were joking! Of course he's not interested."

"Why would I joke about getting more clients? And you're wrong. I could see he was interested. Almost. I... I just have to work on him a bit more. This is business. I met him through you. It's called networking." Rose seem to become emboldened by her own word choice. She stood just that little bit taller. "I'm networking," she said again, thus confirming in her own mind her intention.

Sherlock looked at Rose for a moment, his mounting anger reaching a plateau. He couldn't believe she thought any male was fair game and hers to sell her body to. His own flatmate! But there was a marked desperation in her eyes. One he'd not seen before from her. Was it drugs? Was she working the streets now?

He didn't want to get involved, and he no longer desired her company. There was too much... _emotion_ exuding from her person.

But most of all, he didn't want her propositioning his flatmate.

"Leave," he commanded, opening the door again for Rose.

"What?"

"You heard me. Out. And don't ever come back to Baker Street again. And that goes for the _actual street_. Take your solicitous intentions to the east end. Commercial Street may be more to your liking."

"What? Sherlock."

Rose couldn't believe what was happening. The last time she had seen Sherlock they had ended on friendly enough terms. She had shown him how to bring her to orgasm, and then she had finished him off in the bedroom with a fairly textbook head job. That was the first time Rose had brought Sherlock to climax through oral sex alone. He appeared to have enjoyed the experience.

Once she'd finished dressing in his bathroom that morning, they'd had a friendly, if almost flirtatious exchange. Well, _she_ had flirted; Sherlock had simply stood there with what looked like a smile ghosting his lips.

But he had given her another twenty pound tip, and she had kissed him on the cheek before she left. It had been a pleasant morning's work.

It had been three weeks since then, and because of both their schedules, they hadn't been able to coordinate another meet up. And then her world had fallen apart and she realised she needed another source of income if she couldn't rely on a steady stream from Sherlock Holmes alone. The escort business was fraught with risks. Who would be more trustworthy a client than John Watson? _And_ he was a doctor. He was probably loaded.

But her decision to approach Sherlock's flatmate had backfired. Now she was going to lose Sherlock, too.

"What about us?" she asked, her voice tight and strained. "And our agreement?"

"There is no us. I simply don't require your services anymore. This is _business_."

"Why?"

"I've got all I wanted from you. I've told you before: physiological needs are secondary. If you're going to be drumming up business in the street—"

"I'm an escort now," Rose said in a hollow voice. "Not a prostitute."

" _Sorry._ Is there a difference?"

 _Why are you so cold_ , she thought. _Have I really offended you?_

She was finding it difficult to maintain her composure under his indifferent exterior. The last week had been the absolute worst for her. She didn't need this on top of it all.

"Sherlock—"

"Please leave."

"I have nowhere else to go," she choked before dropping her head and bringing a hand to her face. Her eyes moistened, but she didn't want Sherlock to see her like this. She didn't want to burden him with her melodrama. "Please," she all but whispered.

"Not my problem."

His words were devoid of emotion. Rose slowly raised her head and locked eyes with him. Hers brimming with tears, his cool and unaffected.

Sherlock held onto the door until Rose dropped her gaze and turned from him. The detective felt a strange sense of déjà vu.

The Woman.

 _Are you expecting me to beg?_ she'd pleaded.

Yes.

_Please._

Sherlock watched while Rose crossed the landing, then he swiftly closed the door on her retreating form.

* * *

"Mrs Hudson!" Sherlock bellowed.

There was the doorbell again. He was going to have to do something more permanent to it. John had a new one installed after Sherlock had shot at the old device.

He reluctantly tromped downstairs and strode toward the front door. He could hear the landlady talking to someone in her kitchen. He tutted in irritation at having to leave the comfort of his armchair when there was a perfectly good living specimen downstairs who could've done his bidding for him.

After he reefed open the door to the street, he was stunned at who he found waiting for him.

"Hi!" said Rose, upon seeing Sherlock.

He scowled down at her.

Rose looked completely different. Her face was bright and cheery, her eyes clear, her hair was in a neat bun, and she wore a smart suit. It had been two weeks since he had dismissed her from his flat.

"Don't worry," she began with a laugh, "I'm not here to proposition you. I've come to say thank you and goodbye!"

"Because you didn't get to say goodbye a fortnight ago? Highly unnecessary. I really didn't miss it, and I didn't think any _less_ of you."

"No, it's not that," Rose responded, her expression struggling to remain pleasant despite Sherlock's rudeness. "I—I'm leaving London actually."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. Why should he care?

"I'm starting a new life—"

Sherlock exhaled noisily.

"Good for you," he said, and he made to shut the door on her.

"Sherlock!"

The Consulting Detective emitted an audible tut. He hoped narrowing his eyes would get Rose to hurry things along a little. Why did people always have a story to tell?

"I'm going to Cardiff and I wanted to clear the air between us. I decided it would be good for my mental health if I—"

"Your _mental health_?"

"Yes. To make sure there wasn't any ill-feeling left between us, and to have closure on my—"

" _Closure?_ " These were all words John spoke once upon a time. Words to do with having a _therapist._

Rose sighed at Sherlock's constant interruptions. Wearily she added in a low voice, "I'm trying to end my life as a prostitute here in London before starting my new career. I thought by saying goodbye to—"

"—to all your clients? You'll never get out of London at this rate."

A door opening and hurried footsteps and voices interrupted their exchange. Sherlock turned to see a heavy-set, balding man striding the length of the passageway from his landlady's kitchen toward him. Mrs Hudson followed at his heels.

"—and I can finish up tomorra," the man said gruffly.

"Oh, Sherlock," Mrs Hudson said, when she spied her lodger standing in the open doorway. "Don't consult with clients on the doorstep. It makes the place look untidy."

"Oh for _God's sake,_ " Sherlock muttered. And he spun around and made a bid for the stairs.

Rose wasn't sure if she was expected to follow Sherlock up or not, but she hesitantly stepped inside anyway.

The landlady had returned her attention to the tradesman, who was measuring a spot on the wall from the ceiling cornice.

Rose hastened upstairs. Sherlock's long stride had him already in his living room and once again seated in his armchair by the time Rose joined him. He looked up in surprise as if he hadn't expected her to follow.

Rose stopped in the middle of the rug, her heart racing from her sudden sprint up one flight of stairs.

"I'm not saying goodbye to everybody," she said in her bid to continue their conversation. She paused to get her breath back. "Just the one client I actually liked."

Rose's words jolted Sherlock away from his automatic defence mechanism of saying something rude in response. _The one client I actually liked._

This wasn't something Sherlock heard every day. If he were among a pool of likely candidates, it wouldn't never be the detective-genius that anyone would pick to be the one _most liked_. The one deemed the most clever, perhaps.

Sherlock slowly rose from his seat, fastening the single button on his jacket as he took a couple of steps toward her. Suddenly this was a conversation worth having, because quite possibly he would like to hear more about why he was the most appealing in a long list of clients Rose had fucked.

"Why are you leaving?" he asked. Most likely she had already told him and he had dismissed the information as being boring or irrelevant.

"I've graduated with a Bachelor of Science in Psychology," she replied.

"Really?"

"I was earning money as a sex worker while I studied at uni, remember?" Of course Sherlock remembered. Sort of. "And so I've won an internship in Cardiff," Rose continued. "I'm going to be a psychologist some day."

"Oh," Sherlock said, suddenly seeing Rose in a whole new light. "Right. Okay."

A warm smile spread across Rose's face. "And... I wanted to say thank you as well."

Here it comes, Sherlock thought. Glowing praise for his prowess in bed.

"My independent research project, my case study, it received top marks thanks to you."

"Sorry, what?"

"Quite the insight it was."

Somewhere in the dim recesses of Sherlock's Mind Palace was the memory that Rose was going to use an interview she'd had with John Watson about Sherlock's cases—the interview that was conducted one very awkward afternoon in Baker Street. It was for a psychology essay she was writing, he recalled.

"Oh," he said. "The psyche of the criminal mind. Hardly ground-breaking."

Rose's expression turned sheepish. "No," she said. "I didn't end up writing that one."

Sherlock furrowed his brow, but before he could ask her to clarify her statement, Rose added, " _Sexual arousal: visual stimulation and an evolving experience. A case study of a virgin and a prostitute._ "

"What?"

"I didn't use any _real_ names, don't worry," Rose hastened to add, and smiling slyly. "And I wrote it as an observer, as if I'd conducted interviews with both the sex worker and her client."

For once, Sherlock was shocked into silence. He blinked rapidly a couple of times before stammering, "You... you mean... you..."

"Documented our encounters. Yes."

At that statement, Sherlock attempted to recall each and every sexual encounter he'd had with Rose, and tried to imagination how they would sound when written into an academic paper.

"How about tea?" he asked, and he swiftly made for the kitchen.

Behind him, Rose chuckled lightly.

"Thanks. That would be lovely."

Rose chatted about her career options: psychologist, therapist...perhaps sex therapist, she had added facetiously. Sherlock merely raised his eyebrows at her as he sipped his tea.

"No, I think I'll be saving up all my sexual encounters for myself from now on," Rose commented thoughtfully. "So what will you do now? I can recommend a couple of agencies if you like? You don't want to be going back to a brothel now do you?"

"Ah, no," Sherlock said, draining the last of his tea. "I've ended that particular chapter in my life. Back to masturbating on the rare occasion I find myself with an erection."

"Oh, that's a shame! Think of all the women who are missing out on your talents!"

 _Talents_ , Sherlock thought, a faint smile gracing his lips. His talents were wide and varied that's for sure. But dating? Never.

"I don't need that kind of headache," he remarked. "I'm happy to give John a hard time about his efforts whenever I get the chance."

"I'm sorry about John," Rose said, her expression growing pensive. "That was bad form."

"Yes, well he got over it fairly quickly," Sherlock said dismissively.

Rose's insides bubbled with guilt. She had been ashamed about the whole incident. She hated the feeling of having Sherlock think lowly of her. "I was talking about you," she answered sincerely.

He shrugged. "I know you were desperate."

"We all do stupid things when we're desperate."

"Yes you do, don't you?"

Rose smiled wanly in response. "My boyfriend had broken up with me that week..."

Sherlock stifled an eyeroll. It seems he didn't escape her story-telling after all.

"...and my flatmate left without paying her share of the rent. Of course my parents were upset that I'd let a _nice young man_ go. I was worried about my uni results too..."

Her words washed over Sherlock. He tried to remain attentive for the sake of courtesy, but he found it pretty tough going. He did get the gist of what she was saying. Everything bad seem to happen at once, and now she had her fairytale ending—an internship, the prospect of a new career in a new city. How wonderful.

Except...

_Every fairytale needs a good old-fashioned villain._

_Moriarty,_ Sherlock thought darkly. _Where is he?_

"Sherlock?"

The detective snapped himself out of his morose thoughts. Rose was looking at him with her eyebrows raised. Evidently she had posed a question.

"So where is John?" she asked again.

"Oh, buying groceries," Sherlock said, waving a hand dismissively, "or getting cash out. Not to spend on prostitutes though."

Rose smiled weakly, her heart suddenly beating dully in her chest. "I'm going to miss this. Our conversations. You know, you were the nicest client I've ever had."

"The pleasure was all mine," Sherlock replied, a tiny twinkle of mischief in his eyes. "And quite literally too."

Rose laughed lightly, then added, "Except for the very last time."

Sherlock gave Rose a warm smile, an expression that tugged lightly on Rose's heart strings. It was quite a rare sight, his smile, directed at her. She decided that now was a good time to leave.

"I should be going," she said, slowly standing up. "I'm meeting up with some uni friends to celebrate."

Sherlock stood as well and carried the tea tray to the kitchen while Rose slid on her jacket and slung her bag over her shoulder. Sherlock strolled back into the living room, his hands in his pockets, after he'd deposited the tray. Why his heart began to thunder in his chest was a mystery to him.

"Goodbye Sherlock," Rose said, her eyes beginning to sting.

She crossed the floor to stand in front of him and kissed him lightly on the cheek as she had done so many times before. When he gazed down at her, she dropped her belongings and wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him closer for a hug. _What the hell,_ she thought. _I don't care what he thinks of me now. I'm having a hug._ She was surprised, however, when Sherlock took his hands out of his pockets and lightly embraced her back.

"Thank you," she whispered, holding him tightly, her eyes misting over. "Take care of yourself."

Holding her in his arms and smelling the faint scent from her shampoo, soap and perfume, triggered a very recent memory for Sherlock: the last time he'd had sex with Rose. And once that thought was in his mind, every other encounter, the exact physicality of them, joined in his sensory recall.

This was a more appropriate goodbye, he concluded. The woman who'd taken his virginity, who'd let him conduct experiments on her physiological responses to his ever-growing skill-set between the sheets, deserved more than the abrupt dismissal he'd given her previously.

"I hope Cardiff treats you kindly," Sherlock replied softly, not being able to produce a more poignant sentiment for the moment.

He rubbed her back gently as he heard her sniffing. She didn't let go. She turned her head and kissed his neck, her lips lingering there for a moment longer. Sherlock closed his eyes briefly, enjoying the flutter of her breath on his skin. When Sherlock pulled back Rose lifted her hand to his face and kissed him on the cheek again. She held his face as he looked down at her.

She whispered, "The orgasm I had with you was the last one I had."

Sherlock smiled weakly. He turned his head, and pressed his lips briefly to her cheek. "Goodbye Rose," he whispered.

Rose wrapped her arms tightly around Sherlock's neck again as he drew her closer. Twin heartbeats thudded swiftly in unison. Sherlock pressed his lips to the soft skin below her jawline, grazing it lightly and breathing her in.

 _Don't go yet,_ he thought.

They pulled apart slightly and Rose sniffed again, then ran her hands down Sherlock's shirt feeling the underlying strength of the man as he looked at her curiously. She felt his strong hands navigating the curve of her back as he leant in and whispered again, "Goodbye Rose."

"Goodbye Sherlock," she replied, finding an interest in his shirt buttons.

Yet they still did not part and neither of them wanted to be the first to instigate a separation.

 _Let me stay a bit longer,_ she thought looking up at him and willing him to read her mind.

What she saw were his silvery eyes darkened to an almost grey shade of brooding. He wanted her, even she could tell that, and she didn't need to feel his pulse to know that it now raced along inside him. Her lips parted slightly and apparently that was the green light he needed.

Sherlock dipped his head and pressed his lips to hers. He felt the fullness of her mouth, soft and warm, and when Rose parted her lips, inviting. All sensuality and completely overwhelming. He was incapable of thinking now, only feeling, and his arousal spread somewhere from his midsection, radiating outwards until he was about to be consumed by it. By her.

 _This is why it's such a big deal_ , Sherlock thought. He needed to possess all of her now. This was the last barrier; this is what she was saving for someone special.

Rose was unbuttoning a couple of buttons on Sherlock's shirt as they kissed. He hadn't realised this until her hands were inside it and caressing his chest.

Rose stopped kissing Sherlock long enough to say, "Let's take this to the bedroom?"

"I can't pay," he said, pulling her back in, kissing her again. He didn't want to stop this. He would've paid two hundred pounds for her kiss, had he known.

Rose eased out of his kiss. "It's not an appointment," she said, "This is goodbye."

She picked up her bag and jacket and pulled Sherlock by the hand, leading him to his bedroom for the last time.

Sherlock shut his door, then drew Rose in again. He had a deep desire to have all of her, to assume control. His eyes were blazing and fully focussed on Rose. His mouth demanded hers again, his burned hot, and she felt the turbulence of his passion. They pulled and tugged at the barriers of their clothing until both naked they collapsed onto his bed.

There was no client-prostitute relationship now, just two people who wanted to consume each other.

They continued their kissing, but now able to tantalise and tease each other with their caresses. Sherlock was already hard, but didn't want to start anything until he had incited a complete surrender in Rose. He left off kissing her, and began his slow descent, his mouth following the trail of his hands.

Rose arched underneath him in pleasurable surprise of Sherlock's new-found knowledge of where to touch and to linger.

"Tell me when you're ready," he whispered. _Talking. Talking was good. Did people do that?_ he thought.

Rose caressed Sherlock's hair. _I'm going to miss you,_ she thought. _Especially now that you're so...attentive._ She let Sherlock do his thing, wondering where he had done his homework and feeling slightly jealous that he had found somebody else.

She was getting closer now. _Just a bit longer._ She moaned, and gently ran her fingers along the side of Sherlock's face. Those cheekbones, brushing against her inner thighs. _Oh dear God!_

"Sherlock!" she gasped.

"Now?" he murmured.

"Oh...yes...oh...no!"

"What?"

"Condom...wait!"

Sherlock moved aside as Rose leant over the bed able to reach her bag on the floor nearby. She rifled through it fervently as Sherlock moved up, and embraced her from behind, his body hard against hers. One hand stole down to continue what he'd started with his tongue, inciting a sharp arousal in Rose.

She'd retrieved a packet now, but lay back into Sherlock, enjoying his rhythm again.

She whispered to him that she was ready, so Sherlock moved aside allowing Rose to turn around and roll the condom onto him.

 _I have to get this right,_ he thought. _Get the timing just perfect._

He entered her, emitting a deep sigh of satisfaction. Rose moved with him, murmuring his name.

 _How different this is,_ he thought, _now that she's saying my name with some meaning behind it._

His mind was overwhelmed with sensations of her now: her scent, the texture of her skin, her sounds. He was drowning in her. Sherlock propped himself up on his elbows and he continued his rhythm. He looked into her eyes.

_Pupils dilated._

"Kiss me," she whispered, looking at him with a new longing.

Sherlock smiled at her and bent his head. Rose embraced him tightly, encouraging Sherlock to move faster, twin hearts hammering now.

Because her own needs now grew inside her rather than the role of the sex worker that Rose had cast aside, she commanded Sherlock to roll over and they continued what Sherlock used to call "Phase Two". Rose tended to her own desires until he felt her stiffen and shudder as her pleasure peaked. She moved on top of him, against him, until he lost all control and had no choice but to surrender to it. As the waves battered his entire body then reduced to ripples, Sherlock pulled Rose down on top of him, holding her there as his mind slipped into a blank, quiet state.

They both stopped together, breathing deeply, Rose still locked in Sherlock's embrace, until his mind slowly kicked into gear. Rose blinked back tears as she listened to his heart beat.

"I'm not sure how many times I can say goodbye," Sherlock said breathlessly. "You just don't take the hint and leave."

Rose laughed, and raised her head. "I'm thinking two hundred and fifty pounds."

"Oh, my hourly rate is much higher than that."

Rose smiled back at him, then put her head back down on Sherlock's chest.

"Actually you do need to leave," Sherlock said softly. "John could be back at any moment, and please don't say you'll do him too."

Rose slowly sat up and moved off him. "I'm no longer a sex worker," she said, more to herself than to Sherlock.

Sherlock sat up and swung his legs off the bed. "Just going to clean up. You?"

"I'll use the bathroom after you."

Sherlock left Rose as he entered his bathroom. Rose rummaged in her bag for her phone, checking for messages. _Oh good,_ she thought as she read the last couple. _Everyone will be at the pub for lunch. Today is turning out to be a wonderful last day in London._

Sherlock re-emerged holding his dressing gown just as a male voice called from the landing.

"Sherlock! Sherlock? You up?"

"Lestrade," he muttered, recognising the D.I's voice. "Stay here," he instructed Rose. "It's a detective from the Yard. I'll chase him away. Mrs Hudson must have let him up."

Sherlock wrapped his dressing gown around himself and padding through to his living room to unlock his living room door.

"Sorry to interrupt your sleep in," D.I. Lestrade said as he eyed Sherlock's attire. "Your downstairs door was wide open."

Behind him was Sherlock's favourite Sergeant, Sally Donovan.

"Mrs Hudson's getting work done downstairs again," Sherlock said to Lestrade. "Case?"

"We've got a fairly urgent one. Kidnapping."

"Not another banker, Detective Inspector? I received enough criticism rescuing the last one."

"No, and this one will make you even more popular. Two children. Kidnapped from a boarding school in Surrey."

"Come in," Sherlock said, sighing. "I'll just get dressed."

He left the detectives in his living room. Donovan looked at Lestrade and rolled her eyes.

Rose was almost dressed when Sherlock re-entered his room.

"It's a case. I have to go," he said in a low voice, looking around for his clothes.

"Oh, well, I have to be off anyway."

"Where's my...?" Sherlock muttered. He'd only found his boxers.

"You sort of flung everything that way," Rose said, indicating the far side of the room.

Sherlock stepped into his trousers as Rose twisted her hair up into a bun. Now she was fully dressed.

"Well," she began. "I guess this is the real goodbye."

"Oh, you can't go yet," Sherlock said in a hushed voice, as he shook out his shirt. "They're in the living room. You'll have to wait til we leave. That okay?"

"That's fine. Probably a bit late in the piece to let everyone know you've been fucking a prostitute?"

"Psychology graduate," Sherlock said, correcting her.

Rose exchanged a warm smile with Sherlock. He dropped his gaze and began buttoning up his shirt.

"Boarding school," he muttered to himself, his mind turning to the case. He walked around to Rose.

"Thank you," he said and bent down to kiss her on her cheek. "Just wait til we leave." Then he winked at her and was out the door.

As Sherlock entered the living room, Lestrade eyed him up and down and remarked, "Shoes may be necessary."

"Yes, thank you, Detective Inspector," Sherlock said as he sat in his armchair, retrieving his shoes from where he had kicked them off the night before.

"Right, well I'll give you the details now before we head on over to St Aldate's. The Ambassador to the U.S. has asked if we can get you in. So here we are. His children, Max and Claudette Bruhl..."

Rose listened in as she held Sherlock's door slightly ajar. _Oh, when are they leaving?_ she asked impatiently. She glanced at her watch. She was going to be late to meet her friends. _Fucking hell, hurry up police people._

She heard Sherlock ask a few questions, mutter something about checking the school website and the detectives discussing some finer points with him. Pretty soon she heard another familiar voice—John Watson's.

 _Oh God, now I can't leave until John does._ She sighed in exasperation. She could hear John was asking questions now. Perhaps she should emerge from Sherlock's bedroom. _Hiya! Don't mind me. Just finished fucking Sherlock. Thought I'd weigh in. Missing children? Probably hiding in the dunnies smoking weed. No, no need to thank me. Can you all go now? Just want to tell Sherlock that I've fall—_

_No._

_I have a crush, that's all._

Rose sank to the bed, and tapped her knee impatiently. A tiny idea formed in her mind. A moment of frivolity. Of course she was strapped for cash, but she'd do this anyway. Something else for him to remember her by, and a little recognition for his new found skill.

Rose grabbed her purse from her bag and retrieved a twenty pound note. She placed it onto Sherlock's bedside table and hoped that he'd see the gesture for what it was—a tip, for being more than just a sex partner.

Rose listened at the door again. A male voice, probably the police officer, said "Isn't it great to be working with a celebrity!" and then there was silence.

_Have they left?_

She listened some more, expecting to hear at least John moving about the flat.

 _Oh come on_ , Rose thought.

On hearing nothing at all, she opened the door a tad more. Seeing nobody, she quickly exited Sherlock's room, looked nervously around the corner of the kitchen into the living room. Breathing easy, Rose walked over to the living room window. She looked down onto the street and saw Sherlock and John climbing into the back of a silver unmarked police car.

With a heavy heart she thought, _Goodbye Sherlock._

END OF SERIES 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's the end of Series 2. There will be a lot more episode canon interweaving in Series 3. I hope you're all enjoying the story so far!


	13. The Fall

She didn't know how she had ended up outside the door to 221B Baker Street, but here she was. Best go up and pay her respects to John. Or was it too soon?

Rose's eyes stung once more and the world shifted again.

Baker Street. In the warmth of his arms she had lain, and just for that minute she felt as if the potential was there - the potential for a relationship with Sherlock Holmes.

But then he was gone, swept away on a case. The next thing she had heard about him she had read in the papers the following morning on her way to Paddington to catch the 9:15 to Cardiff.

SHERLOCK: THE SHOCKING TRUTH

She read that Sherlock had been exposed as a fraud - _a fraud?_ \- and that Richard Brooks was an actor hired by Sherlock Holmes to pose as the criminal Jim Moriarty.

She had remained glued to the pavement by the newsstand reading and rereading the article, too stunned to move until the newspaper seller huffed and tutted. She hastily shoved a five pound note into his hand and walked away with the paper without even waiting for change.

She was in a daze purchasing a one-way ticket, navigating to her train, through the turnstiles, into the carriage. It was off-peak, so she was able to find a seat, still glued to the paper. Perhaps if she kept reading it, the text would change, perhaps talk about what a hero he was again.

_This couldn't be true. He's so...real. In your face, real. This is the work of some jealous competitor, or irate client or something. Surely!_

_I was just with him. Yesterday morning. We made..._

_We made..._

Rose couldn't complete that last thought.

He had no reason to lie to her. He hadn't even wanted to talk about his work when they first...met. There was no need to; he was only with her for sex. That part was perfectly honest. Was theirs the only true relationship he had? One which was based on the absolute truth: I'm paying you for sex. Was it a relief for him to be in her company? Some downtime from living his life of lies?

Rose didn't believe he could be that manipulative. Or maybe he could have...

There were so many unanswered questions, but she had felt a wave of sympathy for what Sherlock was probably going through that morning - having to answer to those close to him. She wondered if she should ring him and give him her support?

She pulled out her phone and swiftly brought up Sherlock's mobile number. Should she?

Oh, to hell with it. She had a two hour trip to Cardiff anyway. She may as well do something other than read that article again.

Rose had no luck getting through to Sherlock. Her phone went straight through to his messagebank. She sent him a text anyway, composing it several times before hitting send.

ROSE: [ Thinking about you this morning. I'm here for you if you need. ]

Then she cursed herself. Of course she wasn't 'here'. She would be 'there', in Cardiff, living it up on the proceeds of her Psychology Graduate Intern Scholarship. All £50 per week of it. If it weren't for her parents supplementing the rest, she wouldn't have bothered. Still, it was only this, almost voluntary employment that would give her enough experience and skills to put on her curriculum vitae and help her progress her new, respectable, career.

And of course if she could fuck a few businessmen along the way, she may earn a little pocket money on the side.

 _No, Rose! Put that life behind you!_ she scolded herself.

A daughter of a friend of her parents was putting her up for a week or two, until she found a place of her own. Braith's place was a one bedroom council flat in Plasnewydd. Nice, clean, cramped. Rose was to sleep on the sofa. She'd phoned Braith who gave her directions to the flat. They spent the afternoon chatting about all manner of things, including Braith's secret obsession for her neighbour, in a kind of unrequited, doesn't know she exists, relationship. This made Rose reflect on her own relationships.

She could have been married by now. She could have been Mrs Army Dude. Instead she was sharing a council flat about to embark on a shitty job and would probably end up sucking cock in Grangetown for a tenner before too long.

Feeling completely despondent, she made noises about retiring early for the night, but not before ironing her clothes ready for her first day at the NHS-approved Eirienedd clinic in Butetown.

The next morning, Braith helped Rose with directions to Butetown, via bus, and so she set out for the five minute walk to the nearest bus stop. It was during this journey that her life destiny and planned career path were to part ways.

SUICIDE OF FAKE GENIUS

She stood there staring at the headlines and subsequent bylines for a good few minutes. Confident that she had now missed her bus, Rose walked inside the newsagency, her mind growing more numb by the second.

_No, please, no._

She purchased the paper, didn't remember doing it, didn't recall walking back along the street towards the block of flats, paper in hand, somehow finding a bench to sit on and read. Read and read. She eventually took out her phone and checked for messages. Under Sherlock Holmes was the single message she'd sent: _I'm here for you if you need._

_I'm here for you._

Of course there were no other messages. They had only communicated via her sex worker mobile phone and she had tossed that, but not before copying Sherlock's number into this one. So he probably didn't even know who the message came from.

And now he was dead.

He had killed himself.

There's some mistake. There has to be. He's so strong though, a brilliant, brilliant mind. How could he sink so low that the only solution left to him was to take his own life? Did he have a mental disorder? Well that's what they said, didn't they? He had to have had something wrong with him to make up all of the cases and create a master villain in order to make himself into a super-sleuth. And then he had been found out. His whole world would have come crashing down around him if that was the case. And it wasn't, was it?

Rose stopped reading. She didn't realise how long she'd been sitting there, silently crying until an elderly couple stopped on their way past and asked her if she was all right. She braved a smile, shook her head slightly, then stood up and walked away, toward the flats.

Of course she was locked out. Braith had gone to work and Rose was going to meet her for a pint after they both finished work, then catch the bus home together. And now Rose had skived off work. But she couldn't go.

Not ever.

_The point is..._

_The point is this: a man I ... cared about ... committed suicide and I did nothing to help him. I didn't see the signs, didn't notice he had a mental disorder, didn't make any real effort to check he was okay when his life lay in ruins. None of that._

_Gonna make one hell of a therapist, Rose._

_Hey._

_At least he didn't die a virgin._

_Good one, Rose. Make it all about you._

But she couldn't get past it: the thought that she should've done something, should've noticed that something was off.

_But what about John? Did Sherlock leave a note?_

Rose made up her mind then and there - approximately three hours after she had initially set out for work. Go back to London. Find out what happened. She couldn't live with herself until she did that. And she certainly was not going to enter into a psychology internship with this going on in her mind.

She was able to contact Braith at work and they met for lunch. She explained that something had happened, some tragedy back in London involving a friend - that was the truth - and Rose had to return urgently. But what about the internship, Braith had asked. Deferred, Rose lied. No such thing as deferring an internship with this organisation. Her scholarship would just be cancelled and a black mark put against her name forever more.

Her meagre belongings packed up once again and the last of her savings spent on a return ticket to London, Rose departed Cardiff and abandoned the beginnings she had strived for.

She turned up unannounced at her parents' place and understandably was denied lodgings.

And disowned.

Desperate to find a place to stay, at least temporarily, Rose phoned everyone she knew. She finally received a call back from a fellow graduate who had a sister who had a friend who was desperately trying to sell their one bedroom flat in Leinster Gardens in Bayswater - a flat in amongst a block of red brick almost tenement-like housing, in stark contrast to the beautiful Victorian era whitewashed grand porticoed designs across the street. The friend needed to let the place out while it was on the market, but was willing to halve the cost of the rent to a clean, quiet lodger.

It was perfect, except for the fact that Rose didn't have the money for bond. She didn't have any money in fact.

How to get quick cash? The only way she knew how.

She offered to stay the night at Mr Married-but-misunderstood-by-his-wife's love nest. He was a client from - before, when she had decided that the escort business was far more lucrative than working in the brothel, thanks to Sherlock. Mr Married had an odd assortment of preferences (sicknesses, Rose called them) and she had finally declined his business because of them. But now she was desperate, and this was a once only deal - five hundred pounds for the night. She would wear him out and he would sleep for most of it.

She hoped.

She had hoped right. She left his place in the early hours of the morning, but not before scrubbing herself raw in his shower and helping herself to all of the cash in his wallet, not just the five hundred.

Finally she had a place of her own for a while. She had no immediate plans other than to see John and find out what had happened to Sherlock. But she couldn't get anywhere near Baker Street. It appeared to be crawling with reporters and... fans, it seemed.

So Rose left it for a week, and in the mean time sought employment. Her only options appeared to be in the entertainment industry. She ended up with two jobs: one as a coatroom attendant in a strip club, the other as a part-time receptionist at a tyre-fitting company.

A week later she found herself on a Tuesday night outside the flat at Baker Street.

 _Time to pay my respects,_ she thought. _Time for answers._


	14. I Believe in Sherlock Holmes

Rose felt the bed spring up slightly and winced as the movement sent a jolt through her already throbbing head.

"Christ!" a male voice muttered.

Rose rolled onto her back, turning her head delicately. John glanced around.

"Sorry," he rasped, his voice thick and gravelly, the remnants of an alcohol-infused evening. "Didn't mean to wake you. I'll be back in a sec."

Clad only in boxers, he shakily made his way to the door of his bedroom, grabbing his robe from the hook on the back of it. He opened the door, shutting it carefully behind him. Rose heard the quick thud of his footsteps as he hurried downstairs.

 _Bathroom, probably_ , she thought. She put her hands up to her head to massage her temples and closed her eyes.

Perhaps not the best decision in hindsight, but still - a comfort - that's what they needed each other for right now. Or perhaps just for last night. It was a bit of a blur really.

Hours ago saw her standing in the doorway of Sherlock's flat, a bottle of gin in one hand, tonic water in the other. John blinked up at her from his armchair. He was barefoot, and looked like he had been sitting there, staring vacantly into space for hours.

"S-sorry," Rose said. "Your landlady let me in."

John looked up at her blankly, before recognition flitted across his face. "Um...oh...yeah. Look," he began uneasily. "I...don't..." He sighed, then smiled weakly. "Not really good for company right now...ah..Shelley."

"I know," she said softly, walking into the living area.

She looked around briefly. Everything was almost exactly the same as it had been the last time she had visited a week ago. Except now the air was stale, there was no life in it, no Sherlock breezing through and taking up all the space and all of the air with just his presence.

"I brought this," she said half-heartedly holding out the gin. "I know you'd probably prefer a pint, but I really can't stomach beer. And wine feels too much like a celebration, so..." She trailed off, feeling stupid.

John huffed a breath which almost sounded like a laugh. "If you left me that, I'd probably drink the whole lot in one night. Probably not a good idea," he said morosely. "Depressed people drink gin, don't they?" he added.

"I won't let you drink alone, don't worry," Rose said, trying to control the tremour in her voice.

She made her way over to the kitchen and began the search for a couple of tumblers.

"Funeral's tomorrow," John said quietly.

"Oh," responded Rose, deep in thought. She found a couple of scotch glasses and poured in a shot of gin, then filled the rest with the tonic water. "I don't think I can go. I don't do funerals very well. I'd rather just ..." She paused, taking in a deep breath. "...remember him here. You know?"

John didn't say anything, so Rose brought the drinks back into the living area. She handed a glass to John, who took it automatically.

"To Sherlock," Rose said quietly, holding out her glass to John.

"Sherlock," John said, almost inaudibly. He gulped down the entire contents then held out the glass to Rose before noticing she was just standing there staring at Sherlock's empty chair.

"Um, I'll just sit over here," she said, turning from John and walking over to the couch.

John stood up and cleared his throat. "Thanks. That went down far too easily. I'll just have one more before retiring. You won't mind letting yourself out?" he called from the kitchen.

There was no response from Rose as John poured his second glass. He left it on the counter and re-entered the living area where he found Rose sobbing on the couch, holding her head in her hands.

 _Jesus_ , he thought walking slowly over to her. "Didn't think you knew him all that well," he said softly before catching himself. He stopped just in front of the coffee table. John felt slightly frustrated, an additional emotion to the pile of crap feelings he had already accumulated, consisting of hurt, confusion, disbelief, and growing anger. He just wasn't in the mood to offer comfort to an almost-stranger.

"I saw him a few times," she sniffed, then she picked up her glass and gulped down its contents. "I'm sorry," she said rising from the couch and smiling weakly at John. "I'm intruding. I should go now."

John allowed himself a tiny grin in amusement. "Did you ever write that paper about his cases?" he asked.

"Oh," Rose answered shyly. She adjusted her bag over her shoulder and replied, "I ended up writing a different one, more about his personality." She smiled. "That's why we ... met ... more often."

"Right," John said, shifting aside so Rose could get past. "So you psycho-analysed him."

"Something like that."

"Must have written something resembling a novel then."

Rose gazed up into John's face. His features seemed to mirror her own. "There was enough material there to..." Her face fell momentarily as she struggled with her next words. "He didn't seem the type to...he wouldn't have..."

John cleared his throat and stepped back a little. He dropped his head and shook it slightly. "There's no point," he said almost under his breath.

"I didn't see it," Rose whispered. "And I should've seen something."

"Nope," John said more forcibly, looking back up at her. "You couldn't have. I didn't see anything, and I'm his..." John struggled against his own tidal wave of emotions. He stiffened and set his jaw firmly. "None of us knew. There's no point in ... in... imagining what ifs..."

"Oh John," Rose exclaimed emotionally. She rushed at him and grabbed him in a hug, sobbing.

"Don't," John whispered hoarsely. "Just...don't. " His own voice faltered as enormous pitying waves of grief threatened to consume him also as he held Rose tightly, her body trembling against his.

He didn't want to see this amount of pain on someone else's face; see his own guilt reflected back at him.

"Shelley," he said comfortingly, "Just sit. Sit for a moment, okay?"

Rose felt weak as if her legs were going to betray her. This isn't what she wanted from John. She had wanted answers, an explanation, something to stop this feeling of helplessness. He had just confirmed everything she was already feeling guilty about.

She stepped back and sat down on the couch when John let her go.

"I'll get you another drink," he suggested, leaving her and walking back to the kitchen.

This time he returned with both the gin and the tonic water as well as his own glass and set them down onto the coffee table. He had already gulped down the contents of his glass while in the kitchen.

"He was a prick," John began, pouring out the drinks. "A fucking, arrogant, bastard of a man, and he probably thought he knew better." He chugged back his third drink as Rose sat next to him staring into hers. "And the best, cleverest wanker that ever walked the Earth."

Rose managed a small laugh, then downed her drink it one go. "More," she said. "Let's drown the bastard."

The alcohol began to spread throughout her body, leaving a false warm comfort in its wake.

John cleared his throat as he poured his fourth round, Rose's third. "I didn't believe him, you know."

"Believe him when?" Rose asked.

John breathed deeply. The gin was making him vocalise his deepest feelings; the thoughts that shouldn't be said out loud. John couldn't look at her as he replied. "When he said he was a fake, that what the newspapers had written about him was true. I don't believe it for a second."

"Why would he say it then?"

"To give him a reason."

"For what?"

John's voice was laced with bitterness as he answered, "For jumping off the fucking rooftop."

Rose was silent for a moment as she tried to imagine the scenario John had experienced. She'd read in the papers that John was a witness along with a group of other people who all declined to be interviewed.

"Why did he do that," Rose said, almost to herself, her mind beginning to drift on a sea of gin and tonic.

John snorted. "Sherlock would have a fucking theory. Probably ten possible theories. You know me, you know my methods," John mocked, Sherlock's voice in his head. "Tell me. Why would a bloody brilliant man, who would never be caught in a dead end his entire life, decide to end it all. Why would he think that was the only way out."

"Sometimes it's just..," Rose began, trying to remember her last few years of study. "...a feeling of hopelessness. Or a trigger, or an underlying feeling of rejection by society."

"Well, that's where your theory is wrong," John said accusingly, his speech starting to slur slightly as the alcohol began to take effect. "Sherlock Holmes doesn't have _feelings_."

They sat in silence together on the couch for several more minutes, with John raising his glass to his forehead and closing his eyes to stop the room from warping in his peripheral vision.

"He was nice," Rose volunteered, breaking the silence.

"Nice," snorted John, opening his eyes again. "Never heard that word associated with Sherlock before. But please tell the rest of the class what you're thinking," he said, turning his head slowly toward Rose.

She leant back onto the couch and smiled at John. "He was generous."

John concentrated on her smile for a moment. Her lips, specifically, and then her words finally filtered into his brain. "In what way?" he asked eventually.

"In his feedback."

 _Feedback_. The word echoed through John's mind as he continued to direct his gaze alternately between Rose's eyes and her lips. "Feedback? Oh, you mean his opinion. Well, he gave that quite freely, yes."

_Annoying dickhead._

"I actually found that refreshing."

She was smiling at him again. That knowing smile. Like she knew Sherlock somehow.

 _Wanker_.

"Why?" John asked, narrowing his eyes at Rose. "Do you usually hang around with liars?"

"Yes, I guess I do," Rose mused, blinking slowly. "People who are lying to themselves I guess, as well as their loved ones." She thought for a moment and then qualified her statement with, "Supposed loved ones."

"Huh," John said in disgust. _Liar, liar, pants on..._

_...something._

"Well, Sherlock was the best...my best...f-friend, and he lied to me," John announced, slurring quite a bit now. "He either lied to me from the rooftop, or that was his final truth after having lied to me the rest of the time," John said, gesturing widely. "Can't say that I was his loved one." And then John giggled. He couldn't stop giggling until Rose joined in with him, after which he leant in closely to her and said quite emphatically, "And I'm not gay."

Rose burst out laughing, which resulted in John continuing to chuckle. When they finally stopped, John smiled broadly at Rose, through the slitted eyes of a fellow inebriated soul.

She held out her glass to him in a toast. "To not being gay," she said.

"Not gay," he repeated, and threw back the rest of his drink. "I'm not staying here," he said in all seriousness.

"Why?"

John slowly shook his head. "Can't. After the funeral I'll just pack up...stay with my sister or somewhere. Then get a place...small place. Quiet."

Rose thought about John's words for a moment. Another person packing up and shifting direction. That's what people who commit suicide don't think about do they? The people they leave behind. The big gaping hole they leave behind. If they only knew, if they could see what effect their last drastic and final act would make...would they still go ahead with it?

"I quit my job. I don't know why," Rose stated philosophically.

"Why?"

"I said I don't know why!" Rose laughed, and John giggled again. Rose's face grew serious as she added, "I wanted to find out what happened to Sherlock."

"He's dead. He jumped from the top of a building," John said simply. "There's nothing more to tell."

Both were silent for a few more minutes, then Rose turned to John. He returned her gaze and tried to smile, but thought the better of it.

"Would you like to kiss me?" Rose asked forlornly, as if she had nothing else to offer by way of comfort.

"God, yes," John murmured.

John wasted no time in giving in to his drunken desires. Rose felt giddy as John's lips pressed hard and hot against hers. She knew it wasn't attraction nor lust that coursed through her veins at that moment - there was alcohol, obviously, with just the right mix of loneliness, emptiness and the need to feel wanted.

There was no hesitation in John's actions. He felt it too. He needed to make a connection with another human being, unapologetically. He demanded and she gave. There was no betrayal, no lies, no mystery, just give and take.

Rose felt the steady, rapid thumping of John's pulse in his neck as she ravished it. It matched hers in tempo - not arousal, simply inebriation.

But suddenly John was saying, "No, no, no," over and over, like he was chastising himself. She knew it. Bad idea. But instead he was shaking his head and saying, "Not here. Shhh!" he added, drunkenly pressing his index finger to Rose's lips. The gesture made her laugh, which she attempted to stifle once she noted John's look of alarm.

"Shh!" he said again. "Not here," he whispered and pointed to the ceiling.

 _Oh_ , she thought. _He's scared of getting sprung snogging with a woman._

He grabbed her hand and they both rose from the couch. John led her out of the living room door, across the landing and up another flight of stairs.

 _His bedroom, presumably,_ she thought. _Or an attic_ , she mused, stifling a giggle again as she thought of cobwebs and suits of armour.

"Shhh!' he kept saying, even though his own heavy tread was like a herd of elephants.

She had wondered where John slept if it wasn't with Sherlock.

 _Does he bring girlfriends home? Do you hear them sometimes?_ she had asked Sherlock during one of their tea breaks.

 _Not answering,_ Sherlock replied. _On the grounds that this conversation is boring me._

Rose giggled again, and was met by a stern shush from John.

They entered the room and before Rose could comment on its sparseness John had embraced her again, pulling her toward the bed. She noted his eyes - unfocussed and distant. He was going through the motions, she thought. His body demanded, but his emotions were on vacation.

They broke apart as Rose slipped her top over her head, then proceeded to unbutton John's shirt.

"You're getting a freebie," she murmured in his ear as his mouth attacked her neck.

"What?" he gasped as she pushed him onto the bed.

Rose unbuckled John's belt and as he lay on his back across the mattress.  
"Free...bie," she breathed into his ear.

"Bee," John repeated, as Rose unzipped him. "Bees...Sherlock likes bees," he giggled. "Stupid git."

He attempted to sit up and push Rose back down onto the bed. She lay down to accommodate him.

"I like women," he gushed. "Women, not bees," and he giggled again.

"Jeans," she gasped, her hands on his waistband.

He had made the whole process difficult by lying on top of her. She couldn't help him in any way in this position.

John's mind was trying to process the onslaught of information. _Soft, good, yes, hair, soft, good, yes, lips, soft, good, yes. Curves, bumps, cushiony, soft. Woman. Oh God, yes._

"Wait," she gasped, as John's hands raked along her body, while his mouth sucked and nibbled at her neck. "Finish getting undressed."

John tutted and rolled off her. Rose sat up and looked around the room. _Dresser, wardrobe, desk, chair, small bookshelf. Nothing much. Simple, neat. The room of a man who barely spent any time in it except for sleeping and dressing._

_And fucking._

"John," she said, turning to him as his fingers fumbled on his shirt buttons. "Do you have any...protection?"

"Oh," he snorted. "Um..." His fingers stopped in their task as the brain fought to come up with an answer.

_A location at least._

_Any time now_ , his language centre urged.

_Rough location then._

_Memory?_

_Last sexual encounter would help._

_Come on, John! Think!_

"Er...wallet?"

Rose stood up and walked over to the dresser. His wallet lay there, thank goodness. She handed it to him as he sat up. John blinked slowly twice, and tried to focus on the object in his hands.

_Wallet._

_Cash._

"Ah, nope," he said eventually. "Got a fiver. Will that do?"

"Condom!" Rose said exasperatedly.

"Oh..." Connection made. "Nope," he answered eventually, tossing the wallet onto the floor.

"Don't worry. I think I have in my bag downstairs. Back in a sec."

Rose left the room as John muttered, "Good." He had shakily stood up to drag his jeans down.

Rose made it halfway down the stairs before realising she was clad in her bra and skirt. _Oh damn! Well, it's not like he has a flatmate I have to worry about bumping into._

Then it hit her.

Hard.

_Oh God!_

She stopped suddenly on the part where the staircase curved around halfway down.

_Oh God._

_Sherlock._

She was lost. Her senses struggled through the onslaught of alcohol. _Sherlock, my God._ Confused, she sat down on the bottom step and quietly wept.

_Oh God, oh God, oh God. Please no. What am I doing?_

This was the one thing Sherlock had forbidden her to do. _Stop flirting with John_ , he had said. If there was one request he had of her, just the one, it would be this. _Don't do it, Rose._

"I'm sorry about John," Rose whispered, echoing her words to Sherlock the last time they spoke. "That was bad form."

 _Yes, well he got over it fairly quickly,_ Sherlock's voice echoed in her head.

"I was talking about you," she whispered back.

 _I know you were desperate_ , Sherlock had said.

Rose smiled to herself as she whispered, "We all do stupid things when we're desperate."

 _Yes you do, don't you?_ Sherlock had replied, smiling at her in her imagination.

"I love you, Sherlock," she responded with words she had never spoken to him. "And I didn't tell you because I thought you would never love me back. But maybe you just needed to hear it from somebody."

Rose choked back her tears and composed herself. She remained sitting on the step for a few more minutes, feeling her heart thundering as it continued to pump the alcohol throughout her body.

_I'll just tell John I didn't have any. That will do. He'll be fine with that, surely._

When she made it back up to John's room she was relieved to find him passed out on his bed, one arm and one leg dangling drunkenly over the edge. She sighed and positioned John's limbs more comfortably onto the mattress, then she lay down next to him and contemplated her next move.

 _I'm far too tired and drunk to wait out on the pavement for a cab now,_ she concluded. _I'll just sleep for a bit then grab a taxi in the morning._ She yawned and was swiftly engulfed in sleep herself.

As she lay waiting for John to return from the bathroom the next morning, Rose quickly realised she had slept in her bra and skirt. Scanning the room she found her top, and hastily threw it on just as John returned.

"Oh. Um, sorry," he said, quickly averting his eyes.

"It's all right," Rose replied reassuringly.

"Er...did we...we didn't..." John began, looking completely awkward as his eyes flicked toward his bed.

"No," Rose answered. "No, we didn't. I slept in your bed, sorry. It was too late for me to catch a cab and I...um...didn't want to sleep on the couch. It was too cold."

"Oh, okay. Good," he responded, smiling a little. "Sorry...um..I have to get ready now. I'll be late for the ..." He cleared his throat. "...service."

"Yeah. Okay. I won't keep you. I'm sorry I won't be there."

John smiled and then turned away.

"John...can I...?" Rose trailed off, not really sure what she wanted to ask. _See you again? Get drunk and talk about Sherlock again? Form a Sherlock fan club?_

"Look, Shelley," John began, not knowing where to start, but wanting to head her off at the pass in case she asked something awkward. He would go away after the funeral. He needed to have a clean break from... from all of this. Anything to do with Sherlock Holmes.

"Rose."

"Sorry?"

Rose breathed in deeply. What did she have to lose?

"My name is Rose."

John gave Rose a quizzical look, so she decided to continue.

"I'm a prostitute."

John gave her a blank stare which was then followed by a slight narrowing of the eyes and furrowing of his brow.

_Continue Rose, continue. Let's see where this gets you._

"Sherlock was paying me to have sex with him."

John momentarily closed his eyes and tilted his head, frowning, as if the words physically hurt. He opened his eyes and looked slightly peeved. "Sorry, what?" he asked slowly, as if daring Rose to repeat herself.

"My name is Rose."

"Got that," he responded, seething slightly.

"I'm a prostitute."

"And that," through gritted teeth.

Rose sighed. "Sherlock...

"Nope," he said emphatically, cutting her off with a slight shake of his head. "You know what I'm doing now?" he asked, his eyes blazing. "I'm getting ready to go pay my respects..." He choked off the last word and looked down, sighing deeply. "...to my best friend," he finished in a hoarse whisper. He looked up, meeting Rose's gaze. His face hardening he added, "I don't know what you're doing."

Rose blinked back tears as John turned back toward his dresser. "John, I just wanted you to know that perhaps you didn't know him a well as..."

"You should leave," he said quietly, without turning around.

"I did love..."

John turned back in fury. "YOU HAVE NO IDEA!" he yelled. "NO BLOODY IDEA!"

Rose took a step back, startled.

"I'm burying my best friend today. You have no idea what that's like. And if you are what you say you are..." he added in a condescending tone. "If Sherlock...paid you to be around him, then you mean nothing to us. Okay? Nothing. So just ... leave."

He turned his back on her once more. Rose regarded him for a moment before composing herself. "I'm sorry," she said in a half-whisper, and she was out of the door and down the stairs before the heavy burden of despair enveloped her.

She strode into Sherlock's living room, breathing heavily, her eyes stinging.

 _Nothing_.

Rose picked up her bag from the floor area between the couch and the coffee table, where it had fallen the night before and slung it over her shoulder.

 _Nothing_.

She looked around the room, hoping for some sign of Sherlock. How could he not be alive, when he was so alive in her heart?

 _Nothing_.

She wanted to take something, some part of him, some physical evidence of his existence so she could cherish him forever. If anything, he wasn't nothing to her. He wasn't just a client. He wasn't just income.

_But you're nothing, Rose._

Perhaps a photo? But there weren't any of those around. Besides, the newspapers and internet were full of those, and they were also filled with such sad, bad words. Rose wondered where his hat was. But, she couldn't take that because he hated it. She didn't want a memento of him that he despised. There wasn't really anything, she concluded on walking through the room.

She sat down in John's chair and stared at the vacant chair opposite.

He'd offered her tea and biscuits.

_Surely that wasn't nothing._

He'd offered her his shirt when she was too cold to be naked.

_Not nothing, Rose._

He'd offered her one hundred and eighty pounds to have sex with him when she cried on his doorstep.

_Okay, that's probably not a good example of his philanthropy._

Rose reached behind her and grabbed at the cushion she was leaning on. Cuddling into the Union Jack she fought back tears.

_Why do I care about him so much? Why do I even entertain the possibility that I could have loved him? He was just a man after all. Just another man paying her for sex. Nothing special._

_But...he..._

_Nothing, Rose._

Rose stood up still holding onto the cushion and she wiped away one final tear.

 _I'm taking the cushion,_ she thought. _Something to hold at night, and besides, it's a nice cushion._

* * *

A few days later Rose fastened a corset, then donned her parlour maid outfit, frowning at the plunging neckline.

 _Exactly in what century did anyone decide that cleaning a parlour was going to be comfortable and efficient in this garment_ , she thought. _Oh well, eighty pounds is eighty pounds. And if I fuck the birthday boy, that's another hundred on top of that._

Rose wondered how she let Hallie at the strip club talk her into this supposedly one-off job. Hallie was the stripper, Rose was the coat-check girl. But they got to talking one night and Rose confessed she was a common garden variety whore. Hallie seized on this information and begged Rose to take a job she had been booked for.

"I don't mind stripping, but I'm not fucking a twenty-one year old, especially a drunk one!"

Rose thought long and hard about it...for half an hour anyway, and concluded that she could definitely do with the money, at least until she decided what she wanted to do with the rest of her life.

Hallie and her cousin were going to accompany her to the 21st, as a kind of assistant (Hallie, who would press play on the iPod) and security guard (Yianni, who would make sure she wasn't gang-raped).

When there was a rapping on her door, Rose tutted and looked at her wall clock. _Ten forty-five. An hour early. Fuckers. They'll have to wait then. I still need to put this blonde wig on_. She fastened the last button over her cleavage and yelled out, "Wait!" when her door was pounded on rather impatiently.

"I said, 'Wai...'" she managed to yelled as she opened the door.

A figure pushed the door open wider, barged in and said, in a familiar baritone, "Cold out there. What took you so long?"

The 'tramp' pushed the hood from his head, narrowed his steel blue eyes at her and remarked, "What the hell are you dressed like that for?"


	15. #SherlockLives

Rose stood by her door, too stunned to move, speak or breathe.

"Sorry, it's really cold. Would you mind closing that door?" Sherlock asked, unzipping his hoodie. _Christ! I need to get out of this filth as soon as possible_ , he thought.

Rose closed the door, but not her mouth, which had remained agape as soon as Sherlock had revealed himself to her.

"Do you think I could use your bathroom? Back this way is it?" he asked, indicating the doorway behind him.

Sherlock stepped into the bathroom, shrugged off his hoodie, then pulled off the t-shirt he was wearing underneath. He tossed both items of clothing through the open bathroom door and said, "Was that a washer/dryer thingie I saw in your kitchen?"

He glanced briefly up at Rose, who had only moved slightly toward him from the front door but was still unable to speak.

"Could you wash them...please?" he asked, pulling down the grey tracksuit pants and boxers in one swift movement. He stepped out of the pants and tossed them onto the previous articles of clothing. "And dry them too. Bit smelly, you don't mind do you?" He smiled sheepishly at her, then closing the door he remarked, "Just need some privacy, sorry."

The bathroom door clicked shut, snapping Rose out of her trance. She looked back toward her entrance door and then again at the bathroom door. She could hear the sound of the shower running and a...

_...Is he whistling a happy tune?_

Rose breathed out and looked down at the pile of dirty laundry.

_Sherlock Holmes._

_Sherlock Holmes, naked._

_Sherlock Holmes is having a shower in my bathroom and has just tossed his laundry out to me and asked that I wash it for him._

_And dry it._

_An_ alive _Sherlock Holmes just stripped naked in front of me and is taking a shower in my bathroom._

While Rose's brain was pondering this mystery, her body decided it had a chore to do, and she found herself gathering up the laundry, walking into the kitchen and putting it all into the washer/dryer. She tutted to herself as she pressed the buttons for a full cycle. She never pressed the drying option for herself. It wasted too much electricity, and she was going to struggle to pay utilities bills as it was.

She walked back out of the kitchen area and stood outside the bathroom door listening to the whistling. Eventually it stopped and a hummed tune took its place. Starting to come out of her stunned state, Rose put her hand on the doorknob and slowly turned it.

Steam billowed out at her and as the cold draught subsequently rushed inwards, Sherlock looked up to see what had caused the change in temperature. "Oh," he remarked, wiping the steam from the glass and looking through the shower pane at Rose. "I think I've used up the rest of your shampoo."

She stood just in the doorway and glared at him. Sherlock either did not notice or care. He finished rinsing out his hair, then turned the taps off. _Fuck, that feels good_ , he thought. Opening the door slightly, he beamed at her and asked, "Could I trouble you for a towel?"

Rose moved inside the bathroom fully, and shut the door so she could retrieve the towel from the hook on the back of it. She handed it to Sherlock who proceeded to vigorously dry his hair while stepping out of the stall.

He glanced at her again. _Oh, stunned mullet, as the saying goes. Obvious. I'm meant to be dead. It was announced to the world after all. Why isn't she saying anything then?_ "Why do I have a feeling you've been reading newspapers?" he said, toweling the rest of his body while Rose continued to glare at him. "I guess I should say...'not dead'?"

 _So I'm not going mad_ , Rose reasoned. _He does realise he's not still meant to be walking this earth._ She found her voice at last and posed the million dollar question, "Why are you 'not dead'?"

"Long story," he answered, and wound the towel around his hips. _And one which, for some reason, causes my heartrate to increase annoyingly so; want to avoid that topic of conversation at the moment. Still feels like Iceland in here though. Not the safe, comfortable haven I thought I'd be getting._

"Now," he said, brushing past her. "Why is it so cold in here? Do you not have heating? Could I borrow a robe or a blanket at least?"

"Sherlock," Rose said incredulously, following him out of the bathroom.

He turned to face her and crossed his arms over his chest. "Cold!"

Rose tutted and stalked into her bedroom to retrieve her dressing gown. It was a plain, black, silky thing and thankfully not too short. She couldn't imagine Sherlock walking around in her frilly, red, shorter gown.

She couldn't imagine an _alive_ Sherlock walking around in her frilly, red, shorter gown.

"Thanks," he remarked, shedding the towel.

"I can't afford heating," Rose explained to the dead man, but not really sure why she was.

"Bit of a fancy area," Sherlock commented, strutting about the small living room as he fastened the robe and peered out of the curtains. "At least the other side of the street is. You've got the slum side."

"I can't afford the other side of the street. I can barely afford the 'slum' side," Rose responded defensively.

"What are you doing back in London, anyway? I followed you all the way to Cardiff. Thought I could do with a week's holiday in Wales, but you'd left."

"Why were you following me to Wales? And why are you here in the first place?" And then she asked the most obvious question of all, which he still hadn't answered. "Why aren't you dead?"

"Got anything to eat?" Sherlock asked, strolling into the kitchen.

"Sherlock!"

"Why are you wearing that?" he asked, waving his hand back at her, not even looking at Rose as he surveyed the fridge. "No food, no heating, not really much of a bolt hole."

"Excuse me?" Rose was bewildered. Surely she was living in the twilight zone. "Not really what?"

Sherlock sighed and looked bored as he explained. "Bolt hole. A place where I can hide or rest while I'm on a case, or in this case... dead. I have them all over the city. I was going to make this my number one bolt hole for the week, but it's not well stocked."

"But. _.I_ live here."

"I know," he replied, grinning broadly again. "And nobody knows about you, which makes your place of residence in Leinster Gardens perfect for me. Now," he said, sitting down in an armchair and steepling his hands to his chin. He muttered almost to himself, "I need to rest. I'm going away for a while and until my documents are all in order I need somewhere to sleep without having to worry about anyone stealing my shoes or slitting my throat."

 _What is going on here?_ Rose wondered in exasperation. He wasn't explaining anything; he was avoiding her questions and he was supposed to be dead. This had mental health issues written all over it. But Rose didn't have time to "create the space" as they called it in her Psychology workshops. She wanted answers, and to hell with Sherlock's delicate sensibility. She was the one who had to deal with the shock of his sudden reappearance.

"Start talking," Rose demanded, crossing her arms and giving Sherlock a steely gaze.

"Why are you wearing that?" he asked, looking at her with a puzzled expression on his face.

_Avoidance._

"I'm working."

"Cleaning?"

" _Fuck_ -ing," she answered angrily.

"Oh," Sherlock commented disinterestedly. "Can I sleep in your bed?" he asked, rising from the armchair. "Unless of course you've got your client coming here, which I doubt because the place is freezing. Doesn't really lend itself for running around naked," he shot back.

Rose was stunned at the gall of the man. Firstly, he didn't have the decency to stay dead like a good object of unrequited love should, but now he's dismissing her as not worthy of his interest. Furiously she followed him into her bedroom. He'd shrugged off the robe and was already making his way under the covers.

"Could you perhaps bring some food back on your way home from your cleaning-fucking job?"

Rose's anger bubbled to the surface and she grabbed at the blankets and pulled them off Sherlock.

"Hey! Naked here!"

"Get out!" she ordered.

"Rose!" Sherlock barked back, and reached down for the blankets.

"You can't just come in here and pretend everything's fine! You fucking killed yourself! You died! I cried for you! I lost my fuckin' job because of you!"

Sherlock just stared at what he regarded as a woman over-reacting just a tad. "You lost your job because of me?" Sherlock repeated incredulously, gently pulling back at the blankets.

Rose closed her eyes and breathed out.

"How did that happen?" Sherlock asked, his voice softening. _Why did it happen? What does your career have to do with me?_

Rose sat down on the end of the bed and looked back at Sherlock. She tried to smile at him but it all seemed too hard so she turned away. He was here. He wasn't dead. He was here in her bed and she had told his ghost that she loved him. Where to go from here?

Rose looked up at Sherlock. He was studying her. But John was right. She meant nothing to Sherlock. Nobody knew about her because she wasn't worth mentioning. He didn't even think that she would've heard or cared about his supposed death. _Nothing, Rose._ And she had a life to live, and a living to earn. She could cry; she could fling herself at him, though she'd looking something like an idiot in his eyes. He didn't even think for one moment his return would have any effect on her.

She smiled wanly at him. "Doesn't matter," she said, rising. "You get some sleep. I have to finish getting ready for work. We can talk later."

She made to leave the room, grabbing the door handle when Sherlock said, "I hope he treats you kindly."

"Who?"

"The guy you're fucking tonight. I hope he treats you kindly," he repeated, rearranging the covers on the bed.

"I'm...I'm not fucking anybody really," Rose replied. "It's just a 21st. I'm jumping out of a cake. Sex is optional," she added blandly.

"You're what?" Sherlock asked dubiously.

"Jumping out of a cake."

A number of scenarios were swiftly outlined in Sherlock's Mind Palace, all of them resulting in either the death of Rose, or the production of a poor excuse for a cake.

"H-how is that possible?" Sherlock asked slowly. "Do they bake you in it first?"

"What?" Rose asked, not quite sure if Sherlock was joking or not. "It's...not a real cake."

"Not a real cake?"

"It's a fake cake."

"A fake cake."

"Made of plywood, and painted to look like a giant cake."

Sherlock shook his head slightly, as if trying to imagine a world where this happened. "Why?"

"Why what?" Rose asked, faintly amused at Sherlock's ignorance. How does a guy get to be his age and not have heard of strippers and God knows who else popping out of cakes as a party amusement?

"Why are you jumping out of a fake cake made of plywood?" he asked, genuinely curious. This was one to store in the _Silly Social Customs_ folder of the _What Ordinary People Do_ filing cabinet.

"It's a surprise for the birthday boy. Or I should say man, but that sounds silly."

" _That_ sounds silly?"

In spite of herself, Rose huffed a small laugh then said, "I have to finish getting ready. I'll talk to you later. I'll bring you something to eat."

Sherlock pulled the blankets up higher and slid down under the covers further. "Not fake cake, I hope," he muttered.

"No," Rose replied, silently laughing to herself. She turned out the bedroom light and went to shut the door. Holding it slightly ajar, she added, "I'm glad you're alive, Sherlock."

"Me too," he declared, somewhat sleepily.

Rose shut the door on him, but still felt confused. She was waiting for that wave of sadness to engulf her as it usually did whenever she thought about Sherlock this past week. Sometimes it would debilitate her, other times she'd try to shrug it off and get on with her work checking in coats or filling in invoices for new tyres. But now...she could feel a sense of excitement.

He was alive!

And now there was that possibility...

_No. There wasn't. Stop it, Rose._

"Rose," he was calling her from the bedroom.

"Yes?" she asked, opening the door again.

His voice floated through the semi darkened room. "I should mention that I don't want anyone to know I'm alive just yet. I have some clean up work to do first."

"Um...okay. Sure."

"It's important."

Rose's heart quickened at the thought of Sherlock spending night after night in her bed. Just how long would he stay while he was undertaking his 'clean up work'? "I'll be good," she said softly.

There was a pause before Sherlock responded. Rose wondered if he was analysing the truth of words. "Good. Thank you."

"I'll be back in a couple of hours."

"Okay, good," Sherlock replied with a yawn. "I'll be asleep."

"Goodnight, Sherlock."

Rose closed the door quietly, her head still buzzing. Now she was feeling apprehensive for the evening's activities. She wanted it to be over as soon as possible so she could return to Sherlock. She wouldn't have sex with the birthday boy. The option was hers too, naturally.

Jump out of the cake, perform a lap dance, or whatever, then get the fuck out of there.

Home via a Tesco Express of course, to pick up something for Sherlock to eat.

It all worked perfectly. She was home by two forty. She dumped the plastic bag of convenience store food down on the table and hastened to her bedroom, her heart beating furiously and hoping to God Sherlock would still be there.

He was.

Lying on his side facing away from the door he was fast asleep. Rose shut the door softly, but then he called her. When she opened it again, he had rolled onto his back.

"How was the cake?" he asked sleepily.

"Good. It went ... as well as expected."

"The birthday - _man_ \- was suitably surprised then?"

"I expect so."

"You expect so? I thought that was the whole point of the girl in a cake thing. The element of surprise?"

"Well...sort of. Everyone has an expectation that someone is going to jump out of the cake. I mean, yes it's a surprise because they don't know who is going to jump out of... the cake." Rose trailed off when she thought how ridiculous the conversation was sounding.

Sherlock, however, was still fascinated by the whole idea of surprising people with fake cake jumping that he sat up and continued to probe her about it. Finally Rose had had enough. "Look, I've bought food, but you can eat it in the morning if you like."

"Nope, I'll get up now," Sherlock said, sitting up slowly and rubbing at his hair.

"Help yourself. I'm just going to have a shower," Rose said, leaving the door ajar.

She was desperate to get out of that ridiculous outfit. And...they had - _touched_ \- her.

Once she'd emerged from the shower and donned her spare dressing gown over pyjamas, she found Sherlock in the kitchen licking relish from his fingers.

"Disgusting," he remarked of the convenience store bought hot dog. "But that hit the spot. Now," he said, moving over to the living room. "You've got some explaining to do." And he leant over the back of an armchair and lifted up the Union Jack cushion.

"Souvenir."

"It looks and smells like the one from my flat," he remarked, raising his eyebrows.

"It is. I stole it."

"Clearly," he stated. "And when did you have the opportunity to do that?"

"The other day. I went round to pay my respects to John."

Rose's heart paused for one moment as she thought about the conversation and the almost sex she'd had with John. She hoped Sherlock didn't read that on her face, but he was too busy pensively turning the cushion over.

"And that's how you pay your respects is it?" he asked in mild amusement, dropping the cushion back onto the chair. "By stealing things?"

"Well...I didn't think anyone'd miss it."

"True," he replied, shrugging. "Can I borrow your toothbrush?"

"Um..."

"Thanks," he said without waiting for an answer.

Rose watched him brush his teeth for a minute before turning off all of the lights in the kitchen and living area and retiring to her bedroom. She felt sorry for the man. He had to be dead, which meant he had nothing in the world, not even a toothbrush. Well, he had her: a tom in a bolt hole and all she herself possessed, which wasn't much.

She climbed into bed and waited for Sherlock. She heard him moving about the flat and had a slight moment of panic when she thought he might be leaving. But instead he entered the bedroom dressed in his t-shirt and trackpants. Obviously the wash/dry cycle had finished.

"So why did you quit your job?" he asked casually, climbing into the bed next to her.

Rose paused before answering. Should I tell him? Should I make him feel guilty? Of course I should. He can't just think there are no consequences to his actions. She swallowed and replied, "Because I didn't think I'd make a good therapist."

Sherlock gave her a quizzical look. "But you studied for years. You went all the way to Cardiff. They gave you an internship. You even made plans to get to work that first day."

"How do you know all that?" Rose asked in surprise.

"I have my methods," he replied, smiling smugly at her.

"Then it can't be all that hard for you to work out why I didn't show up," she challenged.

They were silent for a while until Sherlock remarked, "But you had an internship."

"Oh God, Sherlock," Rose said in frustration. "I thought I'd make a lousy therapist because someone I knew killed themself, okay? I didn't see the signs, I didn't try too hard to offer comfort or sympathy when he needed help the most, and he committed suicide. I class that as the ultimate failure in psychological therapy, don't you?"

They were silent again, with Rose thinking that now Sherlock was feeling the first pangs of guilt. Instead, he asked, "Who committed suicide?"

Rose sat up and glared at him in disbelief.

"Oh!" he exclaimed, when realisation hit. "Bet you feel a tiny bit stupid now," he commented facetiously.

Anger again manifested itself in Rose's tone as she said, threateningly, "I'm going to throw you out onto the street in five seconds unless you apologise."

"For what?" Sherlock asked, innocently shrugging.

"For everything! Faking your own death, and coming here and being so insensitive about what I went through and demanding stuff from me. A sorry and a thank you would be good."

Sherlock's eyes widened at the outburst. He looked down at the blankets and then back at Rose, rearranging his features into a look of contrition. "Sorry, Rose."

Rose almost melted under his misty blue-eyed gaze.

"And thank you for letting me stay," he added in a small voice.

 _Dear God_ , Rose thought, observing Sherlock's expression which was dripping in sincerity. _Please stay forever._

"Why did you do it?" she asked eventually.

She lay back down on her side facing him as Sherlock stared at the ceiling. He then turned to her and sighed. "I did it to save my .. _.friends_... from being assassinated by the henchmen of a master criminal. I had to exchange my life for theirs."

"What? Really? What master criminal?"

"James Moriarty," he said simply.

Rose thought for a moment. She knew that name; read it somewhere. "The actor guy they said you hired to be a criminal."

"Yes," sighed Sherlock. "That was all a part of his plan. Discrediting me and forcing me to take a dramatic exit: a shameful suicide."

"Oh for fuck's sake."

Sherlock studied Rose's face. She was looking at him in disbelief, he could see that. But her silence in these early days was crucial, whether she accepted his story or not. "It's not over yet Rose. If anyone thinks for one second that I'm alive then Moriarty's orders will still be carried out. These people have their own professional code of conduct to adhere to."

Rose wanted to trust him - believe him whole-heartedly. And she definitely didn't want to blindly embrace the media's claim that he was a fraud. In her heart she had never been convinced of that assertion. So why did this sound completely far-fetched? Who would go to such lengths? But then again, if Sherlock were the fraud then it was he who had woven an elaborate plot. Both truths sounded as ludicrous as each other.

But she would rather have faith in Sherlock. It seemed the right thing to do. She couldn't imagine how he could get himself out of this. "What are you going to do?"

Sherlock contemplated his immediate future. Plans were already being set in motion and he had to take the first step - his first step to a different life, away from the people he ... knew. "I have to round up his criminal gang here, and break up his networks abroad. I won't stop until that happens, and I won't come back from the dead until then."

Rose's heart fell at these words. "So you're going away?" she asked, almost choking.

"Yes."

"For how long?" she dared ask.

Sherlock was pensive for a moment. When he replied, his voice was barely audible. "Until it's done."

Rose just wanted the whole idea to go away. There must be other people who could do this - why Sherlock? It seemed as if he was the victim here. Why should he be a one-man crime fighter? "That sounds dangerous," she remarked, trying to make light of it. "...and impossible. Why can't you just go to the police, and tell them the truth?"

Sherlock tutted. "Infiltrating organised crime syndicates and terrorist organisations here and abroad is actually an easier task than waiting for the idiots at Scotland Yard to understand anything more complex than a hit and run." He smiled and then added, "And it's not impossible."

Rose's heart lifted in response to that smile: that warm smile with just of hint of a sparkle in his eyes. He was going to be all right; he could look after himself, the smile assured her. In spite of herself, she leant in toward Sherlock and pressed her lips against his.

He didn't return her kiss. His lips met hers, perhaps out of politeness, but he didn't invite her in, didn't lift his hands to her face, or even close his eyes. As Rose pulled away she saw a mixture of amusement and curiosity reflected in his eyes.

Sherlock had deliberately kept the kiss neutral. He knew what she wanted and he couldn't let it happen, not now. It wasn't as if he had forgotten that first kiss a little under two weeks ago - how she had tasted, how she had felt, soft and pliant in his arms. She wanted more than he could give. He had to keep his distance emotionally and he convinced himself that it was for her own good. She had to forget about him. He was dead.

"Not now, Rose," he said gently. "I need a couple more hours sleep."

"I'll help you get to sleep," she whispered softly.

He shook his head almost imperceptibly. "Good night, Rose."

Rose's heart now sank into the pit of her stomach. "Good night, Sherlock," she responded, but at the same time she thought desperately, _Don't push me away, Sherlock._

He turned away from her, and lay on his side. Rose switched off the bedside lamp and lay on her side as well, facing away from him. She wanted to cry, but really, she had spilled enough tears over this man at the thought of him dead. Why cry when he was alive? She would see what the morning would bring.

Perhaps she'd try to convince Sherlock to let John in on the secret. Yes, that's what she'd do. _Poor John._

But when Rose woke the next morning Sherlock's side of the bed was empty.  
And cold.

He was gone.


	16. The Empty Heart

 

From his rooftop perch, Sherlock surveyed all that was his - the city, his city, the city of London - where the rolling, brooding clouds caressed the cold, cemented heart of the vibrant population. The frigid wind whipped around him and his blue-grey gaze matched London's outlook: alert, waiting, welcoming.

 _John_ , he thought, with a sigh.  _Too early for dinner, but I do have something to attend to first._

In the fading light he found himself strolling along a terrace in Bayswater. A couple were walking just ahead of him and he kept to the shadows as their conversation reached him in snatches and small sound bytes.

"I have an early start," the woman was saying. "But this was lovely."

Sherlock grinned to himself. The young woman veered to the left slightly, in an effort to put a gap between herself and her companion.  _She's not interested, mate,_ he mused.  _Best retreat now, before you make more of an idiot of yourself._

"Just a quick...ah...bite to eat," he was saying, not trying too hard to hide the desperation in his voice.

"I rarely eat dinner and I have some studying to do," she added, politely ignoring his request.

"I'll just see you to your door," he said, as they were swallowed by the shadows of the enormous red brick apartment building.

Sherlock casually mounted the steps to the first floor, listening to their voices echoing throughout the stairwell.

"I'll see you at work tomorrow," she was saying, her voice pleasant on the surface, but Sherlock could detect an underlying level of frustration.

"Uh, yeah, then maybe the pub again after?" The man's voice rose at the end of his question, a plea sounding in the elevation.

There was silence as Sherlock assumed she was unlocking her door and/or giving him her final excuses in a low voice.

Sure enough a dejected-looking male rounded the staircase brushing past Sherlock in his descent.

"Evening," Sherlock managed to say, with a fake smile. The man ignored him.

Rounding the corner, Sherlock caught sight of the first floor door swinging itself shut. He lunged forward, preventing it from latching. She turned in surprise at the intrusion.

"Good call. He watches gay porn anyway. Although, had he handed you fifty quid, he may have been in with a cha-"

He didn't finish his insult as Rose strode forward and soundly slapped him across the face.

"That's for the comment," she said, her eyes flashing menacingly. "And this..." She slapped him once more before Sherlock had time to recover. "...is for the last two years."

While Sherlock was still reeling, Rose stepped closer, grabbed the lapels of his coat and roughly pulled him in for a kiss.

Sherlock was momentarily stunned, and then the familiarity of all that was Rose slowly wound itself around him, until his senses were overloaded with everything from her scent, the taste of her and the softness of her body as she pressed against him. He banded his arms around her as she melted into the kiss he passionately returned.

Sherlock was transported back to his life two years ago, a life that had dramatically veered off course from the direction he thought he was heading. His life had been reduced to the basic instinct of survival interwoven with episodes of living a multitude of false lives under false identities, never stopping once to let himself feel, as he was definitely doing now.

Heat, lust, greed and longing all slammed through his brain at that moment, but the sound of footsteps at the door brought him back to reality.

"How about breakfast...?" Eager man was back. He stared at the couple who were still passionately embraced, although no longer kissing as they had both abruptly paused to stare at him. His jaw fell open. Evidently he was too late in coming back with his new pick up line. He backed away, and they heard the sound of his hurried footsteps descending the staircase.

"And what was this for?" Sherlock asked, returning his intense gaze to Rose, as if they hadn't been interrupted.

"The last two years," she whispered, her cheeks now flushed with desire.

Sherlock leant forward and sampled her again, softer this time, savouring her. He hadn't intended kissing her the first time, but now the longer he drank her in and held her body against his the louder the warning bells began to sound reminding him that this was not the reason for his return.  _Stop this now._

"Mmm, beer," he remarked, reluctantly drawing away from Rose and looking pensive. "Peanuts, salted. So you didn't want to talk to him so you kept eating to reduce your answers to monosyllabic replies and gulped down your pint so you could leave sooner. He was never going to get another date was he?"

Rose studied him as he stepped away from her to reach back and flick the door shut.  _Where have you been?_  her eyes beseeched him. He looked so gaunt, but smelled heavenly - aftershave, shampoo. His skin was smoothly shaven and almost glowed with the vibrancy of life.

"I haven't had much luck with dates," she said somberly, but her heart hadn't quite received the message that the passion was over. "He works with me at the home entertainment store. He's been hassling me for ages so I gave in just to get him to shut up. I hate dating."

"Much more efficient if they just wave money at you," Sherlock remarked, his eyebrows raised in disdain as he brushed past her to wander about the room.

"I don't do that any more, Sherlock," she responded wearily turning to face him.

"You've redecorated," he commented, glancing about the sparse room.

"H-have I?" asked Rose, doubtfully.

"Sofa's been pushed back a foot or so, to accommodate your new side table. Painting on the wall. Wasn't here two years ago."

"Wow, how observant," she replied sarcastically. "The painting is to hide a ... patched up hole where I threw a tea cup at ... someone," she explained unapologetically. "The side table is a recent purchase. So, you're back...for good?" she asked with trepidation, eyeing his attire.

"Yes," he sighed. "My business abroad is complete. I have a new case here in London to investigate," Sherlock answered tonelessly. He looked at his watch and frowned.

He looked uneasy, and Rose wondered why he was here after all this time. Her head was swimming once again.

"Kind of hit the ground running, hey?" she remarked.

"Have dinner with me," Sherlock said abruptly, stepping closer to her again, his voice pitched low and his eyes glazed with intensity.

"I...what...where?" Her heart leapt into her mouth in that moment. Two years of loneliness and the sense of abandonment obliterated by one statement.

"A nice little place on the Marylebone Road. Fine dining. I doubt you've ever been there."

Rose wondered how on earth his actions and his words could be so mismatched. "Don't push your luck," she replied, scowling at him, but her heart still hammering in her chest.

"You might have to ... get changed, though?" he asked, running his eyes over Rose's attire.

She was wearing a plain, light blue blouse, and an equally plain and conservative linen skirt, hemmed just above her knees, with comfortable shoes, in an effort to stop the lascivious stares from male co-workers in her male-dominated workplace in the home entertainment industry, where she was employed primarily to process invoices. Her conservative attire didn't always work as a barrier to prevent unwanted attention.

"Jesus! You keep strolling into my life and finding new ways to insult me. These are my work clothes. I went straight to the pub after work with fucking, slobbering, boring man, and I didn't expect that Mister Posh-Ghost-Who-Walks was going to just show up and invite me to dinner to a fancy restaurant with a dress code."

Sherlock tilted his head to one side. "Is that a 'yes'?" he asked, looking at her and feeling quite puzzled at the outburst.

"Fuck off."

"Come on. You'll like it," he said encouragingly, and ignoring her abusive language. "The Winter Garden at the Landmark Hotel. John will be there."

And there it was. The third point in the triangle. "John?" Rose asked, her heart slowly returning to it's normal rhythm. "If you're having dinner with John, you should just go alone. He won't be expecting me." Rose felt that there was no way she could have a dinner date with the two of them: John knowing the truth about her relationship with Sherlock, and Sherlock being none-the-wiser about her confession to his flatmate two years earlier.

And the sex they'd almost had.

Sherlock furrowed his brow and added with a hint of amusement in his voice, "He's not exactly expecting  _me_."

"What? Doesn't he know you're back in London?"

"Rose, he doesn't even know I'm alive! Come on, it'll be fun!" he said with glee. "We'll grab the table next to him and surprise him over pudding."

Rose was stunned at this new level of insensitivity Sherlock was demonstrating.  _Is he truly sociopathic or just completely ignorant?_  She shook her head in disbelief and exclaimed, "Sherlock, are you out of your mind! He doesn't know you're alive! You can't surprise him like that!"

"Well, what do you suggest? It's too late now to organise jumping out of a cake. Do you still do that, by the way?" he asked, narrowing his eyes inquisitively.

"Sherlock, you're an idiot!" Rose cried in exasperation. " _I_  was upset thinking you were dead after a week. John's been believing that for two years. You can't do that to him. You don't know how he'll react."

Sherlock shrugged, immune to Rose's outburst. "He might be a bit annoyed at first, but then he'll see how clever I was. John thinks I'm the wisest man he ever met. He said so to my headstone."

Rose's eyes widened in incredulity. She said carefully, in case Rainman didn't understand, "That's the whole point, Sherlock. You're dead. The whole world thinks you're dead. Can you just...find another way? Visit him at home or something."

"No," Sherlock answered stubbornly and petulantly. "He'll be at the restaurant soon. Come with me, Rose. Let's pretend it's a date," he added, smiling like a madman.

Rose took offence at having to pretend she was on a date with Sherlock. Especially with John nearby knowing full well she was a prostitute, and the added bonus of surprising John with the revelation that his former flatmate, if now a little (more) socially inept, was still breathing.

"No, Sherlock. I won't be a part of this. I think it's an insensitive idea."

"I can't just show up by myself. What will he think?"

There appeared to be an enormous gap between what normal people would think of this situation and what Sherlock Holmes, genius, made of it. And that gap seemed to widen with each passing moment. "What will he think about you not having a date, or what will he think about you being alive?" Rose asked, her voice remaining steady despite the incredulity for Sherlock's attitude reverberating through her mind. "Because one sort of outweighs the other, Sherlock."

Sherlock impatiently checked his watch. "Look, he'll be there soon. Are you coming or not?"

"No, Sherlock," she responded, her calm manner reminiscent of a mother telling her child he cannot have a sweetie at the checkout.

Sherlock stared at Rose through narrow eyes as if he were trying to figure out why she was being so obtuse and unhelpful. He shrugged and turned to leave.

"Sherlock."

"Mmm?"

"Just say you're sorry."

"What?"

"Tell John you're sorry at the very least."

Sherlock looked at her doubtfully.  _Sorry for what?_  he thought, but he nodded faintly and then left feeling completely dejected.  _Now what was he going to do?_ he pondered morosely. He can't just walk in there by himself. Why was Rose being so uncooperative?

The sound of the door shutting returned Rose to her reality. She felt as if she'd been in a dream again. The same dream she'd been having for the last two years - the return of Sherlock Holmes.

When he'd left that morning, she had no idea it would be so long before seeing him again. One week turned into a month, then six months, and before long a year had passed, and then another. He may as well have been dead. She carried on regardless, except for the odd days where she'd remain in bed, unable to move or breathe it seemed. Those days occurred less frequently over the course of the first year of him being absent.

In the beginning, she saw him everywhere: every man wearing a long coat, any man sporting dark wavy hair, any rumble of a low baritone. She even snogged a man in a bar once because he had a posh accent. Admittedly, she was drunk at the time. She knew he was a poor substitute for Sherlock, and she came to loathe all men as a consequence. Well, she gave them more contempt than she usually reserved for the male species.

Rose set about putting a load of washing on, cleaning off her coat of toe nail polish, and eating a bowl of cereal for dinner, all while watching a pathetic black and white romance on the telly. She'd stop now and then, cuddle her Union Jack cushion and shed a tear for the heroine, thinking what bastards all men were, and why couldn't she find a man who wasn't obsessed with sex - because they all were, weren't they?

She was just washing her cereal bowl when there was a soft knock at her door. She connected the security chain and gently opened it, peering through the gap, expecting to see her neighbour who wanted to escape her drunken husband again.

Sherlock cleared his throat. He was standing there holding a tissue to his nose which was obviously bleeding.

"Could I..." he began as Rose closed the door on him and released the chain.

"Thank you," he said as she opened it up for him.

"Reunion go well did it?" Rose said sarcastically as Sherlock strode in.

He continued on into the bathroom and proceeded to clean his face. Rose tried to ignore him, although her heart was racing in his presence again, and she turned up the volume on the telly and tried to concentrate once more on the tragic romance.

"Well obviously he's going to need some time to get used to the idea," Sherlock remarked upon finishing up in the bathroom.

Turning to him and pressing mute on the telly, Rose asked, "And how did you approach him?"

"I...disguised myself as a waiter, put on a French accent and interrupted him while he was trying to propose to...someone," he finished, flapping his hand in a vague gesture of disinterest.

"You did what?" Rose was incredulous on all counts.

"Well, in hindsight it was probably not the best thing to do, but I don't see how my actions are any less silly than your jumping out of a cake to surprise someone," he stated sullenly.

"Sherlock," Rose began, looking up at him in disbelief, "Even jumping out of a cake is not an appropriate delivery method for announcing to someone that you're not, in fact, dead."

"Oh," Sherlock remarked, looking completely contrite. He sat down on the sofa next to Rose, and put his feet up on the coffee table.

Tonight hadn't gone exactly the way he had envisaged for their reunion. He thought convincing the world that he was dead for two years and single-handedly destroying James Moriarty's network in all of continental Europe was the work of pure genius. He was sure John would just shake his head and say, "Well, that was bloody brilliant, Sherlock."

"So...he punched you?" Rose asked, actually looking concerned.

"Yes. He physically attacked me several times during the conversation. The Liverpudlian kiss was his final statement of disappointment."

"Oh God. Poor John."

"Poor John? Look at me! Poor Sherlock!" the Consulting Detective protested. "I've been away for two years. I haven't exactly been living it up. John's been shacking up with someone else and carelessly growing facial hair," he finished, screwing up his face in disgust.

"What?"

"He looks ridiculous."

Rose meditated on Sherlock's words for a moment, imagining John with both a moustache and/or beard and a...fiancee. "So, he got engaged...in the end?" Rose asked, worried that Sherlock had fucked up in more than one instance.

"What? Oh, I don't know," Sherlock replied, waving his hand dismissively. "Something like that, probably."

Rose felt pity for the man. The world as he knew it had moved on without him it seemed. She wondered if he was still going to live in Baker Street. Out loud she said, "Don't you have your own home to go to now?"

Sherlock looked back at Rose sheepishly. "I haven't been back there yet. That's last on my list of stops after St Bart's and Scotland Yard.

"The hospital and the Met? That makes sense."

"I just wanted to clean myself up a bit before going to see anyone else. I don't want to alarm them unnecessarily. Has my nose stopped bleeding?" he asked, removing the new tissue he had replaced in the bathroom.

"I think so. Your lip's cut, too. Would you like an ice-pack?"

"Thank you," Sherlock replied sullenly.

John had attacked him, he thought morosely as Rose retrieved an ice-pack from her freezer for him. Physically attacked him. What on earth possessed him to do that?

As Sherlock pressed the ice-pack to his bottom lip, Rose huffed a small laugh. "Because not only are you not dead but you've been physically assaulted. I can see the horror in that for some people. How many others are you going to give the gift of your reappearance to?"

Sherlock paused to think for a moment. He hoped his other reunions were not going to be along the same lines as his one with John. "I'm going to see Molly, he answered, then qualified it with, "She's a pathologist at Bart's, and..."

"Molly?" Rose asked suspiciously. Another female. That's why he had been getting so attentive at sex, she incorrectly concluded.

"Molly Hooper. She already knows I'm alive. She helped me with the...er...fake suicide."

"Did she?" Rose asked, her face hardening. "And does she help you with your libido as well?"

"What?" Sherlock asked, perplexed.

"Did you fuck her as well? Is she really a pathologist or is she a sex worker in disguise too?"

"No!" Sherlock exclaimed, feeling slightly alarmed at the image that came to mind of Molly Hooper as a sex worker. "I don't have predilection for finding professionals in the medical industry who moonlight as prostitutes. I assumed you were a unique case."

"So you never fucked her?"

Sherlock was appalled at the accusation. "I've only ever had sex with you, Rose," he said in a small voice.

Rose felt warmed by Sherlock's admission.

Sherlock sighed at the thought of returning to an empty flat, one which was devoid of companionship. He didn't want to press his company on Molly again. He had spent a couple of nights in her spare room two years ago, well, her room (he needed the space) and she had awkwardly and continually kept offering him cups of tea as if she didn't know what else to do with him. Sherlock just wanted...something else. No, not that. Someone to have a decent conversation with. Molly's conversation was always dotted with apologies it seemed. He cleared his throat and asked, hesitatingly, "So, I'll...er...be home later. Why don't you come 'round?"

Sherlock's words buzzed around Rose for a second. He doesn't waste any time. "What? Me?"

"Yes, you. It's my first night back in the city and I wanted to..."

"Have sex?" she finished for him.

"Catch up," he said, simultaneously.

"Oh," she remarked. "Catch up? With me?"

"Well, you know. I've been away. I don't know who won celebrity Big Brother or who got the most goals in...er...cricket. We can...chat."

Rose huffed a laugh, causing Sherlock to grin back at her. "I don't..." But Rose felt a little sad for Sherlock. He was obviously expecting to find John more receptive and welcoming. He was clearly upset that he didn't have his old friend back to sit in front of the fire with and...chat...or whatever it was they engaged in...clearly not sex.

On the other hand, Rose also had her own life to consider. These days she, perhaps unfairly, associated the name Sherlock Holmes with all of the negative aspects of her life. She didn't think she'd be able to cope emotionally with any further mental fucking up he was going to subject her to.

"I don't think I'm the right person for that," she replied.

"For 'chatting'?" he queried. "We always do that."

"Sherlock, I don't think you can just come back after all this time and expect relationships to just pick up where they left off. There's a certain amount of ... grieving and ...hurt that people have to overcome."

"What do you have to overcome? You were one of the privileged few who knew I was still alive."

"It's been two years, Sherlock. When you didn't come back I thought I must've imagined you visiting me a week after your death. I thought I was going mad. There was no trace of you. I read everything they said about you in the papers until the news went stale and even the comedians grew bored making jokes about you."

"Charming," Sherlock muttered under his breath.

"I found this group of nutters on the internet who believed you were alive," Rose continued, feeling a tad foolish, "...and I thought they may have had some contact with you. So I joined. The Empty Hearse they were called. I only lasted one meeting before they kicked me out."

"Why would a group of nutters kick you out?"

"Thank you, asshole! Because all they did was sit around volunteering theories about how you faked your own death. I didn't care about that. I was the only one who had actually sighted you. I told them you visited me in the week after you died and that you had a shower in my bathroom, ate a hotdog from a convenience store and slept in my bed. And no we didn't do anything, I told them."

"Rose," Sherlock began slowly. "You weren't supposed to tell anyone."

"I thought they were in contact with you! And it was months later. I really believed I was going loopy. As it turns out they thought I was delusional. One girl said you would never eat a hotdog, and the guy in charge said you'd never sleep in the same bed as a woman. One of the other girls said my story was sacrilegious."

"Sacrilegious?"

"You know...about you rising again, having your wounds cleansed. Although I find that funny," she said, laughing. "Mary Magdalene was a prostitute, too."

"Who?"

"Never mind," Rose sighed. "Anyway, they kicked me out, but at least I got a hat."

Sherlock didn't understand anything Rose had just said. Why weren't people happy he was alive? Surely that was a cause for celebration? And now she was pushing him away as John had. He swallowed hard and asked again. "But will you come over?"

Rose could feel her heart giving out.  _He's so alone,_  she thought.  _He just spent two years away from everyone, and we're all acting so distant._  She smiled wearily at him and asked, "When will you be home?"

Sherlock brightened at Rose's apparent change of heart. "In an hour. I have to see Graham, a detective at Scotland Yard after I go to Bart's, then I'll probably need to convince my landlady to take a herbal soother. Might be best to give me a couple of hours before coming 'round."

Then he smiled quite sincerely making Rose forget her promise to herself to let the bastard go.

"I'll see you in a couple of hours then," she responded, with the butterflies in her stomach of a fifteen year old.

One hour and fifty-five minutes later, Rose once again found herself on the pavement outside 221B Baker Street, but this was for a happier occasion. She'd brought a bottle of wine along with her because it was, indeed, a celebration this time. In addition, she'd also brought another couple of items for Sherlock.

Sherlock opened the door for her less than a minute after she'd pressed his buzzer. His eyes were sparkling and he grinned broadly at her. He was obviously very content to be home.

"This is for you," Rose said, handing over the cushion from her flat.

"You do know that this isn't mine," he commented, taking the cushion and examining it as they mounted the stairs together.

"I know. A friend of mine came to stay one night after a huge night out. He...er...vomitted on it in the wee hours of the morning. I had to get rid of it sorry. I tried to wash it, but it never smellt the same. I found a new one a year ago."

"Mine was square," Sherlock said forlornly as they entered his flat.

"I couldn't find a square one, but the flag is actually a rectangle anyway, so this one's more accurate," she answered, trying to put a positive spin on it.

Sherlock pitched the cushion onto John's armchair and said, "Doesn't matter. People don't notice details like that anyway. Now, what've we got here. Wine, and...?"

Rose handed Sherlock the bottle of red and held out the board game she'd also brought along. "Operation. Thought we could play."

"A board game," he said tonelessly.

"Yes! It's fun! And you'll like it," she added enthusiastically. "We get to remove foreign objects from a human body."

When Sherlock looked alarmed, Rose added, "Plastic ones, from a miniature body."

Ten minutes later, Sherlock and Rose were perched in an armchair each, studying the physical ailment pieces of the board game along with glasses of wine.

"I'll have to warn you—I possess an exceptional set of fine motor skills," Sherlock boasted, while matching up ailments to body cavities.

"Which is why we're going to modify the game a bit."

"Oh good," Sherlock said slyly. "I was thinking a mild electric shock by wiring it up to a kitchen appliance if I can somehow marry the amperege to voltage in a non-fatal combination. Hmm, your resistance would be...how dry is your skin?" he asked pensively.

"What! No!" Rose exclaimed, horrified.

"This is useless," he said, demonstrating by tapping the tweezers against the metal side of an opening in the 'body'. "It's just an irritating buzzing noise. And why is the nose lighting up like a clown? Hardly conducive to motivating you to be more careful. Now if we were to deliver an electric shock..."

"Sherlock! No! I mean...something more fun, not lethal."

"Lethal is fun," he stated matter-of-factly.

Rose didn't know whether to laugh or cry. "How we sane responsible grown-ups play is: you have to lose an item of clothing if you lose a turn. Or some people play by chugging back a drink each time, but I think we'll stick to clothing. You don't seem to be the getting drunk type."

Sherlock furrowed his brow. "How is that fun? My way's better. Mild electric shock."

"Have a drink of wine, and we'll start with my way, okay? It's already late and I don't want to wait for you to rewire the whole game board."

Sherlock sighed and looked petulant. He then took a sip of wine and said, "Right. I'm going first so you can see how it's done properly."

Another ten minutes later, Rose was completely relaxed, having finished two glasses of wine. She'd lost her top, undershirt, and skirt. She was left sitting in a bra, tights and underwear. Sherlock was fully clothed of course, but he had also consumed two glasses of wine.

"You're quite hopeless at this," he murmured as he studied the angle at which he needed to grasp the wishbone.

"I am, aren't I?" Rose responded seductively.

"The trick is not to be impatient and...there, see?" he remarked, holding up the plastic bone triumphantly.

"I have my own tricks," Rose sighed. "Mmm, Butterflies in the Stomach," she read from the ailment card. The buzzer sounded and she tutted as Sherlock scoffed.

"It's a good thing you were studying Psychology and not something important like Neurosurgery," he chided as Rose stood up and began slipping off her tights.

"So, Sherlock, when was the last time you had sex?" she asked innocently.

Sherlock glanced up and replied, "Well, you'll remember. You were ther-"

He stopped as he took in the view of Rose standing in front of him in her bra and thong.

"I was, wasn't I?" she remarked, feigning innocence and dropping her tights onto the floor. "Your turn,' she said smiling and absentmindedly brushing her hair away from her neck as she sat down again, this time sideways in the chair with her legs draped over the arm.

Sherlock's gaze roamed her body momentarily before he picked up the next card.

"Adam's Apple," he said, his voice rasping slightly. "Oh, bugger!" he exclaimed as the buzzer sounded.

"Jacket," Rose said sweetly.

Sherlock stood up and shrugged off his jacket. "And don't think I don't know what you're doing either. Well played," he said fixing her with a snide grin. He turned to drape his jacket over the back of a chair near the living room table.

Rose picked Writer's Cramp, and deftly maneuvered the pencil out of the forearm. Sherlock picked Wrenched Ankle next as Rose leant forward and seductively asked him "What exactly is a Wrenched Ankle?"

Sherlock glanced at her cleavage and replied, "It's...oh fuck! Rose, put those away!" he yelled as the buzzer sounded and the patient's nose lit up.

"Shirt," she announced, chuckling to herself and leaning back into the armchair.

Sherlock stood up to unfasten his cuffs and pull his shirt out of his trousers. Rose asked him how his other reunions went.

"Fine," he answered, unbuttoning his shirt. "Avoided getting brained by a frypan, but apart from that, mostly incident-free. Although a hug from a burly Scotland Yard senior detective can be slightly disconcerting," he said, with a half-smile.

Sherlock shrugged off his shirt causing Rose to gasp.

"Oh Sherlock!" she half-whispered, horrified.

She stood up, her eyes wide as she took in the pale, almost luminous white skin of his chest and torso, and she remembered it had always been like that on all of the occasions he had been naked for her. But now it was covered in a multitude of bruises, some fading to a yellowish-green hue, some still red, blue and purple.

"It's nothing," he said quickly. He turned to drape his shirt over his jacket, and Rose caught of glimpse of his back.

Further bruises covered his back, overlaying angry red lines - lashes they looked like - and some pink with age.

"Sherlock," Rose choked. "What happened to you?"

"I wasn't exactly popular everywhere I went," he said dismissively.

Rose apologised in a half whisper, stepping closer to him.

"Why are you sorry?" he asked, eyeing her curiously.

"Because I doubted you."

"Doubted me?"

"I didn't think..."

She trailed off, because that was the crux of it, wasn't it? She didn't think. Hadn't thought of why he wasn't in London, where he was or what he was going through.

Two simple thoughts crossed her mind during Sherlock's absence: he was dead or he was alive.

If dead, did he die by throwing himself off the roof of St Bart's hospital, in which case she was under some kind of psychosis imagining he had visited her, or had he died somewhere in Europe during the breaking up of criminal networks, in which case it was best not to think about that and just carry on.

If alive, was he staying away because he was an asshole? She didn't think beyond the fact that had he still been alive that his two years away were possibly spent getting the crap beaten out of him by goodness knows who; that at several times during those years he may be lying physically broken somewhere, or fighting or running for his life. She'd had no idea.

And now here he was, this beautiful man - his pure, virginal, alabaster skin all mottled with the marks of violent acts. Her heart bled for him. The man who feigned giving his life for his friends had still suffered bodily for them in his task to rid the world of those who were mercenaries and terrorists.

He'd been beaten, God knew how many times and on how many different occasions. His skin had been broken in places, lashed until it was torn and bloody. But what of his mind? Apart from the obvious and quite frankly alarming number of marks on his body, she could also tell that two years absence from London and the comforts of Baker Street had altered his physical form. He was always slim, sometimes malnourished looking, she'd thought on a couple of occasions. He was now still slim, but the muscle tone in both his arms and chest was more developed. His time away had been physically demanding for him. It had hardened his body.

But the state of his mind should not be dismissed so easily. It was clear to Rose that Sherlock didn't want to show anybody how hurt he was - how broken he was. He just wanted to carry on and take up where he'd left off. He wouldn't ask for help, or say that he needed comfort. He came back and acted like an insensitive prick to mask his insecurities. He didn't reach out for anybody. His mind had also become hardened.

But he had reached out to her, hadn't he?  _He came to you, Rose. He may have made light of taking you to dinner, but he did ask you to come over for a chat. But why didn't he say..._

"Stay with me tonight, Rose," Sherlock said, his voice barely a whisper, and threatening to spill over with emotion.  _I'm lonely,_ his eyes told Rose.  _Don't walk out on me, too._

Rose's breath hitched but she knew what she had to do. "Of course I will," she whispered back, with conviction.

She held her hands lightly to his chest before sliding them up to his shoulders, cautious of not applying any pressure to his bruises. Sherlock had moved with her, encircling his arms around her and gazing down at her, his eyes now midnight blue with desire.

Rose lightly caressed his face, her thumb skimming his lower lip, where it had been split by the physical liberties of John Watson's objections. Sherlock parted his lips slightly at this gesture and lowered his face toward Rose's. She guided his kiss to her, both their soft lips pressed together tentatively, as if they were meeting for the first time.

Sherlock closed his eyes and shivered slightly under her light touch. He parted his lips when she did, his tongue matching hers to take, explore and taste one another. Desire pooled deep within, spreading with an agonising intensity throughout the rest of his body. He needed her, and this. Whatever this was. It filled the hollow ache that had grown inside him over the last two years.

Rose wound her arms around Sherlock's neck, allowing him to crush her soft breasts against the masculine hardness of his chest. There was no missing his desire for her with Rose almost humming in deep satisfaction as his hands roamed the curve of her back, then downwards pulling her pelvis into his.

Sherlock's lips moved from Rose's to hungrily claim her neck. She lifted her head in response, offering herself to him. His hands found their way to the thin lace of her thong, threading their way between lace and bare skin.

Her hands roamed possessively over his chest, down to the flatness of his stomach, coming to rest at the waistband of Sherlock's trousers. As she released him, he devoured her mouth again, and somewhere along the way Rose's bra had become unfastened. It seems some skills were not forgotten after two years. Rose's body slowly began to burn with a new heat at the thought of what other skills Sherlock had not forgotten.

They both were left in their underwear when they came up for air.

"I thought I'd won," he whispered, against her lips.

"What?" she murmured in response, her heart now racing in time to his.

"The game," he said, glancing in the direction of the sidetable. "Even if you took the last piece," he continued, his lips brushing over her face in a light caress, "I had most of them. But if this was your intention," he gestured by gently pressing his hardness into her, "then clearly you have won."

Rose smiled against his lips as he returned to kiss her.

"Shall we take this game elsewhere?" she asked.

Sherlock took her hand in response and led her to his room, the board game forgotten.

Nobody was going to be lonely tonight.

.


	17. Let's Do Deductions

Sherlock wallowed in sullen self-pity. What did he care if he lived or died from some debilitating disease? He had just spent two years making spur of the moment, life or death decisions, and not any of them preceding an activity as exhilarating as this. Well, actually, the thrill of the chase, the blood pumping through his veins, that came pretty close.

Sex with Rose without the use of a condom was going to be his next life or death decision, at least according to Rose, but she had put an abrupt end to their foreplay by stating, "I don't make any exceptions," and promptly left the room to obtain her handbag and therefore the prophylactics.

When she returned less than a minute later, Sherlock found a way to emerge from his enormous sulk long enough to rake his eyes over Rose's body, appreciative of the fact that she left the bedroom to wander about his flat completely naked.

"Now that was the absolute wrong attitude to have, Mr Holmes," Rose said sternly while she rummaged in her bag for the condoms. "Don't ever let me hear about you considering that option again. It is no option as far as I'm concerned."

Sherlock shrugged non-commitedly. "Stupid invention."

Rose place a condom packet down on Sherlock's bedside table and then pulled open the drawer. "I'm going to put some in here, and perhaps you can buy some yourself."

Sherlock ignored Rose's suggestion, the remnants of his massive sulk still lingering. "I don't have any diseases," he stated emphatically.

Rose was slightly amused at both Sherlock's arrogance and his ignorance. "Well perhaps I do?"

Sherlock peered at Rose through narrow eyes. Of course he'd scanned her every time he had encountered her. This time, especially after two years, was no different. "No, you don't."

"How do you know?" she challenged.

"I would've noticed the symptoms," he said matter-of-factly. "And besides, my tongue has been just about everywhere my penis has, and I don't see you insisting I wrap that in latex."

"Now that would be funny," Rose laughed. "Might stop you talking so much."

Sherlock ignored Rose's jibe. "Anyway," he began, scrutinising Rose as she sat on the bed next to his outstretched legs. "According to the recommended health and safety protocols observed by people in your industry, you should've been using a condom while performing oral sex on me."

"Really?" Rose asked in amusement, not so much in surprise of the information he imparted but that Sherlock knew about it. "Well I took a calculated risk and assumed you didn't have any nasty diseases," she stated defiantly. "And during our first time together you were annoying me, so I thought I'd just surprise you by going down on you."

Sherlock's face flickered with hurt momentarily before he resumed his sullen composure. "I was annoying you?"

"Yes," Rose laughed, thinking nothing of her reply.

Sherlock stared unblinking at Rose, his face still and he spoke with his voice remaining even. "Do I always annoy you?"

He didn't know why the answer to that question was important, or why he felt vulnerable in that moment.

Rose smiled and then slowly leaned forward just enough until their lips almost touched. She whispered breathily, "Sometimes. Now do you want to have sex with me or not?"

Sherlock felt a twinge deep in the pit of his stomach. His physical arousal hadn't completed disappeared with Rose pausing their antics to retrieve the protection, but his emotional investment had started to wane in her one minute absence. "Yes," he sighed against her lips, his eyelids heavy with desire.

"Then stop talking."

Rose pressed her lips to Sherlock's and they didn't waste anytime resuming the level of raw passion they'd obtained earlier in the living room. Sherlock parted his lips, inviting Rose in, and his tongue met hers, causing a sharp arousal to spread throughout her core.

His arms wound around her shoulders, his fingers finding her hair. He held her to him while he tasted her, exploring her and deepening their kiss. As his slender hands drifted down Rose's spine and then along her side until he was skimming her breasts, Rose moaned in deep satisfaction. That sound, so primal in its surrender burnt through Sherlock making his heart thunder inside his chest.

Rose broke their kiss long enough to rearrange herself on top of Sherlock, straddling him, feeling his hard length beneath her. He gasped as she applied pressure and then resumed kissing him. Sherlock could feel his control slipping. The general wariness, default mistrust and suspicion he felt for most other people he had encountered during the last two years were slowly being eroded from his cerebral cortex. He was going to give everything to Rose, to this maddening woman who was consuming him with her own needs and wild passion.

He was letting her take charge of him physically, and he didn't know whether his emotions became part of the deal at this point in time. His brain was shutting down once more - all logic and reason were shutting up shop for the long weekend.

Rose shifted and navigated along his chest with small kisses and nibbles, and he knew at once her intended destination.

"No," he reluctantly commanded, and he gently cradled her face in his hands until she ceased her descent. "No, I won't last," he reiterated feebly. "It's been too long."

Two years. Two long years without the physical contact of another human being, unless you counted exchanging blows as physical contact. He hadn't thought about this at all. Rose and sex had never even entered his mind during that time. In fact, he hadn't let anyone from his former life dare invade his thoughts. He couldn't be hindered by sentiment, or blinded by his feelings for even one second. One purpose, one goal only had been his priority: destroy Moriarty's network.

Sherlock pushed Rose backwards onto the mattress, a predatory glint in his eyes that made Rose's whole body tremble with a desperate hunger for his touch. It was as if she had waited two whole years for this.

She could've had sex with anybody during that time really, in fact she did - just the once though, about a year ago. She was drunk at a party thrown for Jessica Teiller, a former uni friend, who was jetting off to become a volunteer counsellor in Ghana. Jessica's cousin was a police detective, and Rose was attracted to his stories of life up against the criminal element. Of course that was Detective Inspector Dimmock's ultimate aim - to impress a young woman with his accomplishments, recounting the highlight of his career so far: the nabbing of a couple of Chinese assassins and the breaking up of an Asian artifact smuggling ring. Rose had sex with him in a nightclub toilet, a spur of the moment decision which she immediately regretted afterwards. Sherlock Holmes he was not.

Sherlock observed Rose's eyes darken before he devoured her throat. He felt her pulse racing as he raked his mouth, teeth and tongue under her jaw. She pressed his body to her, small whimpers escaping her lips. She no longer cared for restraint. This was all about her, and him. If she'd known he would return she would have waited five years to have this with him and no one else. Perhaps longer.

Sherlock took his time, moving agonisingly slowly for Rose. His hands roamed where his tongue did not, stroking her breasts and along her stomach. She moaned, her whole body fiercely responsive and she moved against him, sending his own arousal soaring until he throbbed and ached for her touch.

But he wouldn't enter her just yet.  _How good your are,_  Rose's words from a life ago echoed back to him,  _is how well you satisfy your partner._  He remembered the challenges now, and paused his efforts to unhinge Rose by looking back up at her, to quietly observe his progress. Rose gasped, her chest heaving. "What's wrong?" she asked.

"Just checking you were okay with this," he replied, his eyes twinkling, for he knew the answer already.

"Don't stop," she pleaded.

Sherlock chuckled and resumed his task.

Sherlock Holmes - super sleuth, the wisest man John Watson had ever met, the most human ... human being, the original Consulting Detective, smarter than Scotland Yard's finest, able to penetrate eastern European organised crime networks with a single disguise - was actually good at fucking.

And he had obtained the services of a specialist in the industry and was making her beg him for it.

He truly was multi-talented.

Seeing Rose writhing on the precipice only made him feel more powerful and his need to be inside her blinded him. When he paused again, Rose, in complete sync with Sherlock's desires, reached over for the condom and held it out to him. He snatched it from her, and resumed his efforts, simultaneously ripping the condom from the packet and slipping it on.

He drove into her in one swift movement, moaning at the same time Rose gasped.

 _Fucking like a man just out of prison_ , Rose thought deliriously, although her body arched, welcoming the invasion.

As if Sherlock had heard her thoughts, or the same notion had occurred to him, he slowed down his frenzied pace, making his thrusts deeper and longer, and he pressed his lips to her neck. Rose locked her legs around him and guided his face to hers.

She had wanted him to make love to her, desperately wanting this to be love, but somewhere in the back of her mind she thought the man wasn't capable of the sentiment. Still, she had imagined this moment over the last couple of years and didn't want their 'first time' back together again to be some casual, if not mind-blowing, fuck.

He responded accordingly, dipping his head and crushing his mouth against hers. Her hands around his torso pulled him in tighter and she raked her hands along his back. As Sherlock gasped at the desperateness of her gesture, she mistook his utterance as discomfort with the image of his violent lashes and scars jolting her back to reality. She cried out in a whimper against his lips, her eyes glistening once more with tears. Sherlock pulled back and looked into her eyes, his brow furrowed.

"Rose, what's wrong?"

"I'm sorry," she murmured, shaking her head slightly. "I'm sorry. You were all alone."

Sherlock bent his head until their foreheads touched. "Shhh," he said. He kissed her downturned mouth until she blinked her tears away. "I'm fine," he whispered. "I have you now," he added hoarsely.

Rose sniffed a couple of times, indicating she was still very emotional. The sex was all but forgotten, except for the minor detail that Sherlock was still inside her. Her crying hadn't abated, and he felt just a bit awkward that he was listening to this, still hard, but the mood was rapidly waning.

He gently pulled out of her and lay down alongside her. As his arms were roughly still around her, he pulled her in closer to him. Physically comforting those who were upset was quite foreign to him, but for some reason, this felt like an entirely natural response. Sherlock's heart felt heavy as Rose quietly sobbed and curled into his chest. His mouth went dry and an unfamiliar pressure manifested itself in his tear ducts. Rose had been the only person in his life to have reacted to the horror of his experiences. Most others had merely responded to what they perceived was his insensitivity as to how they felt at being deceived these last two years, and didn't spare a thought to him sacrificing his life for them. And he hadn't exactly been sunning himself in Ibiza all that time.

Sherlock rested his chin on top of Rose's head as her sobs died down to intermittent shudders. She sniffed one final time and tilted her head. He gazed down at her and gave her a polite smile, the smile of someone waiting and willing for the over-emotional response in another to just be over with.

"Are you okay?" Rose asked him through tear-stained eyes.

"I'm always okay," he reassured her, his smile warming her.

Rose reached up and caressed the side of his face as Sherlock sighed and closed his eyes briefly, enjoying her soft touch. "I'm sorry," she whispered again. "This isn't the welcome back you deserve."

He opened his eyes again. "It's perfect," he responded in a low voice, then closed the gap between them with a tentative kiss on Rose's lips.

They took it slowly, lying side by side, rekindling the passion that had never quite dissipated. They kept pace with one another and when Rose demanded more, Sherlock gave willingly, until tenderness gave way to impatience from both of them.

Sherlock studied her, soft and pliant underneath him as he drove deeper inside her. She moved her hips against him, encouraging him, to take her harder and faster.

When Rose's body shuddered with her final surrender, her abandonment of all restraint, Sherlock realised that he had taken something from her that did not belong to him. And then his own tumultous release slammed into his brain, blanking his thoughts as his body was wracked with the overwhelming sensations of his orgasm.

Rose clung to Sherlock as he bowed his head onto her shoulder, twin hearts racing, and their breathing both heavy and hot.

"Let go now, Rose," he said to her surprise, and when she did so he rolled from her and lay on his back next to her.

Rose waited a beat, and then rolled on to her side, sliding over in order to rest her head on Sherlock's chest.

"Don't touch me," he said abruptly.

Rose froze. "What's wrong?" she asked in alarm.

"Don't like to be touched. Senses heightened," Sherlock replied, speaking as if words were at a premium too.

Rose lay back down again on her own side of the bed and listened to Sherlock's breathing. She had felt completely elated and content post-orgasm, but she now doubted her role in Sherlock's life, or bed, for that matter.

Sherlock's mind was still in that blanked out state of the refractory period. He struggled to rebuild his anti-emotion wall, before too much sentiment flooded in. In the few seconds after his orgasm, and while Rose still had her arms around him, he felt completely connected to her - this woman who'd shown sympathy and, dare he think it, love toward him. And then the wall went back up and he felt sickened by the idea.

He quickly sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed. With his back to Rose, he said, "Just going to clean up," before disappearing into his bathroom.

Rose's mind was in a turmoil. Should she stay now or go? She should at least gather up her clothes which were dumped on the floor in the living room. She pulled on her knickers which she found on the bedroom floor, the only garment to have made it that far. She heard Sherlock finishing up in the bathroom and hastened to the living room for the remainder of her clothes.

Rose had just found her bra near Sherlock's chair and had stooped to pick it up when Sherlock emerged from his bedroom wrapped in a scarlet dressing gown.

"Are you leaving?" he enquired in a worried tone, which confused Rose.

"I'm..." She hesitated, unsure of what decision to make.

"It's quite late," he said, walking closer. "Why don't you just stay? Get a cab in the morning."

Sherlock had no intention of having sex with Rose again that night. But he knew, deep down, that his mild panic at having to spend another night alone was affecting his decision making. The nights abroad were always the worst. He could never sleep comfortably, he'd have to remain ever vigilant and the slightest noise would keep him awake anyway. He just didn't want to spend his first night back in London without the feeling of someone close to him - someone who was unlikely to slit his throat in the dark.

"I...um...I don't start work til late tomorrow anyway," she gushed nervously. "I'd rather just go home so I can sleep in a bit."

"Stay here. Sleep as long as you want. I won't bother you. I can't sleep these days and when I do, I promise you, I don't snore."

His eyes bore into her, but Rose emitted a small laugh anyway. The idea of staying over sounded very attractive indeed. Perhaps Sherlock wasn't being as dismissive in bed as she initially thought. "Sure. Thanks. I don't snore either," she said, braving a smile back at him.

"Well, I'll join you later. I have some research to do first." He turned around and walked through the kitchen to the sink. As Rose picked up her remaining articles of clothing, Sherlock asked, "Unless you want tea?" He held up the kettle and gave Rose a wide grin, raising his eyebrows expectantly.

"I might just turn in," she said apologetically. "It's way past my bedtime."

She strode over to Sherlock and he allowed her to give him a small peck on the cheek. She bade him goodnight and retired to his bedroom. She dumped her clothes down on a chair, then slipped into the sheets wearing just her underwear. She wondered when Sherlock would join her, and if he would wake her up for another round. It didn't take long for her to fall into a contented sleep, dreaming of Sherlock making love to her.

When Rose awoke the next morning, the cause of which was a full bladder, she found Sherlock's side of the bed empty but thankfully not too cold. She had no idea when he had joined her, noting that he didn't wake her up to have sex. She made a quick trip to the bathroom then grabbed a robe from behind the door and braved a visit to the living room. Sherlock was staring into the fire, feeding it logs, bathed in a warm glow.

Rose was in two minds whether or not to interrupt his thought process.

"Morning," she said, almost too quiet to register as she slowly approached him.

Sherlock turned anyway. "Good morning," he said quite pleasantly.

"Did you sleep at all?" she asked, folding her arms across her chest and shivering slightly.

"I did, for a couple of hours at least." He smiled weakly.

He looked tired, she thought. Wonder why the poor man can't sleep? Probably classic PTSD.

"I'm not usually up this early." She yawned as if to demonstrate this fact.

"I take it you don't normally rise before eleven," Sherlock remarked, settling back into his armchair as the fire roared into life beside him.

"Sounds about right. What time is it?"

"Just before six I think."

"Oh God. Well, I'm going back to sleep. Is that all right? My shift doesn't start until after lunch."

"Oh, sleep as long as you like," Sherlock replied pleasantly. "I may just duck out when the corner store opens at seven. I seem to have run out of everything. Mrs Hudson even turned my fridge off," he lamented, glancing toward the kitchen. "I guess she figured nobody was going to use it."

Rose yawned once more, and waved a tired hand at Sherlock before retiring to his bedroom. She was asleep in almost an instant, finding Sherlock's bed enormously comfortable, and finding the thought of Sherlock nearby enormously comforting.

A couple of hours later, she stirred from her slumber, awoken by the sound of a woman's voice.

"I expect he's just dashed out," came the voice from the vicinity of the kitchen.

It sounded like Sherlock's landlady, Rose thought, for she had been let into the flat a few times now by the woman. Suspecting that the voices were coming closer, and operating in a mild panic, Rose flew off the side of the bed and onto the floor between bed and tall boy. There was a tokenistic knock, and then the door opened just a tiny bit.

"Sherlock?" came Mrs Hudson's tentative call. "I'm sure he can't be too far away," she said, turning to the unseen visitor. "Just leave me your details..."

Her voice died away as the pair left the flat and descended the stairs. Rose sighed and climbed back onto the bed feeling dishevelled and a tiny bit silly. She was an adult, for Christ's sake, in an adult relationship - in a  _consenting_  adult relationship, in the bedroom of the man who had invited her there. Why should she have hidden?

The remnants of a discreet industry, she concluded. Backdoor liaisons, sneaking around, false names, dirty secrets. Was she Sherlock's dirty little secret?

Rose lay back down, glancing at the clock as she did so.  _8:17am. Oh God, far too early for visitors_ , she yawned. She drifted in and out of sleep for the next three-quarters of an hour. Sherlock's bed was way too comfortable.

Mrs Hudson had left the door slightly ajar when she'd left, so Rose had no trouble hearing Sherlock's rapid ascent on the stairs upon his return. At least, she hoped it was Sherlock. The confidence of the footsteps through the kitchen toward the bedroom, and the light rustle of shopping bags seemed to indicate that it was, indeed, the detective.

"Rose!" he said, eagerly as he pushed his bedroom door open wider and strode in. He upended his shopping onto the bed and said, gleefully, "Look at these!"

Rose groggily sat up, and found she was surrounded by a haphazard arrangement of condom boxes.

"Um, what?"

"Condoms!" he announced unnecessarily. "You said I should buy my own, but you didn't specify a brand. I can't believe you never gave me a choice. Look," he said, as Rose struggled to awake fully and comprehend what the detective-genius was gabbling on about. "Pleasure gels," he said thrusting a box into her face, but not noticing that it was too close for her to even focus on it. He was too absorbed in grabbing the next box on the bed. "Extra safe, Intimate Feel, Pleasure Me," he said, holding up each box in turn. "Pleasure who?" he asked quizzically, examining the back of the box. "Ribbed and dotted for extra stimulation. Doesn't specify," he muttered.

"Sherlock."

"The single most interesting fact about these, Rose, is that there is no standardisation of measurement. Look - thin feel, intimate feel, extra thin feel, ultra thin feel. Which is the thinnest? Is ultra thinner than extra, or intimate? There is no scale, Rose!"

"Okay," Rose responded in a small voice, pulling the blanket up higher.

Sherlock turned to look at the naked woman before him and said, his eyes blazing with intense determination, "We can test them all, Rose!"

Rose's eyes widened in terror.

"I'm going to create a spreadsheet, then we can categorise each one in terms of sensation for both of us, durability, ease of use, and accuracy of package labelling. You're in the perfect industry for this!" he exclaimed, rising from the bed.

He shrugged off his jacket, as Rose frowned at his comment about this being her industry.

"And this is the tip of the iceberg, Rose. This is only a subset of the market," he mused, draping his jacket over a chair. "These are the latex ones," he said, sweeping his hand in the direction of the packages on the bed. "There's also the newer polyisoprene. Our research could influence standardisation in packaging."

Rose cleared her throat. "You want to test these now?" she croaked.

"No," he replied condescendingly as he grabbed at his dressing gown from the back of the door. "Later, you know - every other time." He pulled on the dressing gown over his shirt and trousers. "When we've finished, I'll write a new blog post about it. I have a website," he announced proudly.

Rose was frightened. Very frightened. "I've seen it," Rose all but whispered.

"But right now, I have a terrorist organisation to catch." He raised his eyebrows as if to conclude the conversation, and then swept out of the bedroom.

 _Thank God for terrorists_ , Rose thought, sliding fully under the covers and making some of the condom packages fall to the floor.

A few minutes later Sherlock was back. He opened the door wider and spoke quickly in a low voice, "Just leave this open. My brother's on his way up. He'll suspect something's up if my door's closed."

Rose pulled the blanket down off her face and looked annoyed at the continual interruption. "I think he was here earlier," she said sulkily.

"No, that was a potential client. Mrs Hudson gave me his details and he left his stupid hat." And then he pressed a finger to his lips before leaving the room as Rose heard another male voice call, "Sherlock?"

 _Brother_ , pondered Rose.  _What would Sherlock Holmes' brother be like? The same?_ She strained to listen to their exchange, fighting the impulse to just stroll out there - probably not naked.  _Wow, there are two of them. How did I not know this? Could I have contacted the brother during the last two years? Had he known about Sherlock faking his own death too?_

And Sherlock had indicated that she keep quiet. So she  _was_  his dirty little secret.  _Wonderful_. But he did want to have sex with her at least - how many more times? Rose surveyed the boxes around her, and looked over the side of the bed at the boxes that had fallen to the floor - at least thirteen more times. Looks like they had a future after all, she thought disdainfully.

Rose lay back wishing she had thought to have gone to the bathroom again earlier. She looked around Sherlock's room, noting that nothing at all seemed to have changed since she was last in it, two years prior. His whole flat appeared to have been preserved as a shrine to him.

The low male voices continued on in a constant stream of banter, or serious discussion; Rose couldn't tell which. But then she heard the unmistakeable sound of the buzzer from the Operation game. Surely not? Perhaps Sherlock was showing his brother... perhaps telling him about the game he played with a ... prostitute. Rose's heart sank a little. Did Sherlock still think that of her? He had said, 'Your industry,' during his little monologue about condoms. And he wasn't referring to either the mental health profession or the home entertainment industry in that context, of this she was sure.

The Holmes brothers' voices grew louder, but not out of anger. They were speaking rapidly to each other, which Rose found quite amusing. The brother was obviously as sharp as Sherlock, and she wondered if he were younger or older.  _Two of them!_ She was fascinated by the notion. She really wanted to meet Holmes the Other.

The discussion seemed to come to an end, punctuated by the laughter of a woman, possibly the landlady, who must have re-entered the flat at one stage, Rose deduced. As the flat lay in silence once more, Rose drifted in and out of sleep. About an hour later, she woke again, listening to the sounds in the flat. She couldn't hear anything and assumed that Sherlock was quietly working away at something, unless he'd gone out again. She sat up, leant against the headboard, and lazily scrutinised a condom packet she picked up from the bedcovers at random.

 _Oh my God_ , she remarked to herself.  _Charged with orgasmic pleasure,_  she read in horrified curiosity.  _Deep ribbed designed for maximum stimulation and contains an intensified lube to warm and excite. Warm and excite,_  she repeated in her head.  _Sherlock does that to me all by himself. I don't need a manufactured latex product to do that. My sweet Lord, what'll they think of next?_ She picked up the next one.  _Climax control lubricant, contains benzocaine. For fuck's sake! And Sherlock's wants to do an in depth study of these!_  All she ever required in "her industry" was extra lubrication. Loads of it.

"May have to think seriously about what would constitute a suitable control," Sherlock drawled from the doorway. He was casually leaning against it, quietly observing her.

"A control?"

"Something against which we can compare them. The most obvious would be no condom at all."

"Um, not going to happen, sorry."

Sherlock shrugged disinterestedly. He entered the room pulling off his dressing gown and asked, "Are you going to stay there all day? Somebody tweeted that I'm alive and suddenly I'm inundated with clients this morning."

Rose dropped the box and sat up. "I'm so sorry. I didn't realize things had got so busy. I'll just get..."

"No, no," Sherlock began, interrupting her. He reached for his jacket and said, rather sheepishly, "I just thought you'd like to come out and ... help me solve cases ... if you're not doing anything this morning other than sleeping."

"Um..."

"First client's at eleven."

Rose glanced at the clock. It was 10:36.

She smiled back at Sherlock who was looking at her with a hopeful expression. Perhaps she wasn't such a dirty little secret after all, just one to keep from his brother then. And if she'd really thought about it, she would've remembered that he did invite her along to dinner to surprise John only last night.

"I'd love to. Do I have time to have a quick shower?"

"Sure," Sherlock answered, a grin spreading across his face as he pulled on his jacket. "Come out when you're ready. "

He winked at her and took off back to the kitchen, leaving Rose to shower and dress. She let the water cascade over her, but conscious of keeping her hair from getting wet. She still couldn't figure Sherlock out. He's lonely, she kept thinking to herself over and over. He's just lonely.

Once she'd showered and dressed herself in yesterday's clothes she entered the living room to find Sherlock staring at the wall above the couch. It was plastered with maps, photos and lists.

"Wow, you've been busy this morning," she remarked, stepping closer in order to examine the montage.

"An underground terrorist network is planning an attack on the city," he murmured almost to himself. He turned to Rose when she gasped, and added, "Nothing for you to be alarmed about."

"Great," she responded. "Any places I should avoid? The tube? Buckingham Palace?"

"Too soon to tell, but then again I've only been working on the case for a couple of hours, and part of that was playing Operation with Mycroft," Sherlock said, one corner of his mouth curving into a smile. He gestured toward the board game.

"Mike Roft?"

"My brother."

"Oh." And then after a moment or two, Rose ventured, "What's he like?"

Sherlock gave Rose a stern look, thinking she had designs on propositioning his brother, which would be a rather amusing social experiment to witness, if anything else. He replied, "Don't even think about it."

Rose frowned and replied defensively, "I wasn't thinking about anything - just that you have a brother and I wondered if he was anything like you."

"He's smarter than me, but as I have all the energy in the family he constantly refers cases to me. Perhaps if he moved around a bit more he wouldn't have to be perpetually dieting," Sherlock said under his breath. He returned his attention back to the wall in front of him, which prompted Rose to do the same.

She was about to make a comment about Sherlock's brother who diets, when she was momentarily distracted by a photo on the wall.

"Hey, I've seen that guy," she said pointing.

"You've probably seen him in the press. Lord Moran, the current Minister for Overseas Development. I'm having him watched."

"I don't think I've seen him in the press. I hardly read newspapers any more."  _Not since they started writing horrible things about you,_  Rose thought. "I think I've seen him on the tube."

"Doubt it, Rose. He has a peerage. He'd have a private car at his disposal." He turned to scrutinise Rose through narrow eyes, which she found slightly disconcerting. "Perhaps he paid a visit to you in the broth—"

"No!"

"Does happen," Sherlock added, shrugging.

"I've never had sex with him."

"Sucked him off in a private car," Sherlock muttered.

"Sherlock!"

"What? Why are you being so sensitive? These are the words you've spoken to me on more than one occasion."

"I don't... I don't do that anymore."

Sherlock shrugged and raised his eyebrows in a couldn't care less attitude. He resumed his examination of the wall.

"I did see him on the tube," Rose brooded.

After a moment's silence where they were both studying the wall, Rose ventured, "And what exactly did you want me to do concerning your cases this morning?"

"Whatever you like—listen in, ask questions, exchange incredulous looks with me," he added with a playful glint in his eyes.

"Okay," Rose responded, returning Sherlock's smile. "But you're very good at this. Why do you need me?"

"Yes I am very good at what I do, Rose. And it is this contrast between brilliance and mediocrity that a companion such as yourself and John Watson so ably provides." Rose frowned slightly at Sherlock's words, however he continued, unabated. "But I don't need someone just to highlight my obvious talents. My track record with solving cases speaks for itself. It's the fact that I can read a crime scene the way that you and John can read people. You know, you get inside their heads, and their underwear too if I leave you alone with them long enough."

"Thank you," Rose responded with a hint of sarcasm.

"I might miss something - a look, a sob, a pathetic whimper concerning feelings or something else equally insipid," Sherlock said with a look of distaste. "John used to wallow in those. I expect you're the same."

"Thank you again. You  _are_  asking me to help you aren't you?"

Sherlock looked at Rose in exasperation. "I just need a second set of eyes and ears, Rose. It's very useful to me."

"Fine," she replied automatically. Then she smiled. "It actually sounds like fun."

Sherlock thanked Rose, hoping he wasn't making a mistake. His wishful thinking was rather short-lived, however. His first client, Rachel Howells, a very young distraught lady from Wales, wanted Sherlock to investigate her wayward boyfriend. She could barely get a coherent word out, and if it wasn't for Rose taking a seat next to her on the couch and holding her hand they wouldn't have got past the word 'bastard!'

In calming Ms Howells down, Rose established that the unfaithful Mr Brunton may not have had a relationship with her at all, and that she had misread the signs of the friendship they had initially established in their workplace. Ms Howells was able to see, through Rose's gentle guidance, that she had been projecting her own fantasies onto Brunton, and that there was no need to investigate an infidelity of any kind.

Once the footsteps had died away and the sound of the front door clicking shut punctuated the air, Sherlock looked back at Rose and tutted.

"Case solved!" Rose said brightly, picking up both hers and Ms Howell's tea cups from the coffee table.

"There was no case, Rose," Sherlock said irately.

"There was. And I solved it."

"No, you didn't. You see, I solve cases. You solve people."

"I did, didn't I?" Rose said, laughing. She brushed past Sherlock as she made her way into the kitchen. "Oh, and it's half past. I should get going. Think you can solve the rest without me?"

"I think I can manage," he replied sullenly. He cleared his throat and said, "And perhaps that was a good thing you did with the...ah...hand holding. That seemed to calm her down a bit."

"Yes, Sherlock. There's no reason why you can't do that. You may get more information out of people that way."

Sherlock cast his mind back to the time he ripped a shock blanket from the shoulders of a distraught house mistress outside a boarding school in Surrey, then proceeded to yell at her. That method also worked particularly well. But perhaps there was a time and a place for yelling abuse and another for holding hands and speaking softly. He had no trouble shedding crocodile tears. He'd done that a few times now, to extract information from people. Perhaps he could go one step further and hold hands when the situation called for it.

"That was fun, Sherlock. It really was," Rose remarked after rinsing the tea cups. "I'll have to go before your 11:45 client though."

Sherlock rolled his eyes at the thought of Rose finding his job amusing and a small distraction from her 'real work' as she disappeared into the bedroom to retrieve her bag. He thought despondently about having to conduct the rest of the consultations alone. And Rose just wasn't suited to distancing herself from the woes of his clients. If she kept convincing them all that their problems were in their heads, he would end up without any cases to solve. Still, a corpse was a corpse. And there was a skeleton found in a wall that had Scotland Yard stumped. He looked forward to sinking his teeth into that one later today.

He browsed his email inbox on his phone. The other cases all seemed rather dreary, and to have to wade through them solo would be mind-numbingly boring at best. His face hardened at the thought of John Watson and his stupid new life.  _And_  his equally stupid mustache. Now who could he recruit to help him solve crimes? Someone who admired his brilliance, who wouldn't be too intrusive, and possessed a small amount of intelligence as to not be annoying.

_Ah._

_Molly Hooper._

He quickly composed a text message to his faithful pathologist.

_Molly, please stop by during your lunch break if you have one. If you don't, stop by anyway. I have an offer for you that is too good to refuse. -SH_

He pressed Send just as Rose re-entered the living room. "Off to my real job," she said pleasantly. "Not as fascinating as yours, but plenty of head-cases out on the sales floor just begging to be examined."

"Sales floor? And what exactly are you selling?" Sherlock asked, frowning.

"You don't know where I work do you?"

Sherlock shrugged, reaching down into the basement of his Mind Palace and coming up with something hazy. "An adult entertainment shop?"

"A home entertainment store," Rose corrected him, laughing. "There's a huge difference. And I personally don't sell anything. I'm in the office out the back, processing invoices for large screen TVs, computers and media players. I thought you knew that?"

"Wasn't really listening," Sherlock responded unapologetically.

"Clearly not," Rose commented, pulling on her jacket. "So, I'll see you...later, I guess."

Sherlock was momentarily distracted by his phone buzzing. He checked it as Rose exited onto the landing, adjusting her jacket and her handbag in an effort to delay leaving.

"Bye, Sherlock," she said, smiling wanly.

 _See you at one,_ came the reply text from Molly.

"Ah...oh, yes. Bye Rose," Sherlock said, finally looking up from his phone.

The doorbell downstairs buzzed as Sherlock stepped out onto the landing. Rose's heart skipped as Sherlock bent his head and kissed her chastely on the cheek.

"Thank you, Rose," he murmured, his voice low and gravelly, "for staying."

"Just go right up," Mrs Hudson's voice floated up to them, and they heard the sound of multiple footsteps on the staircase.

"Oh, Rose!" Sherlock exclaimed, suddenly remembering something. He reached inside his jacket and retrieved his wallet. Rose's heart sank as he pulled out a handful of fifty pound notes. "I grabbed this when I was out this morning," he said hurriedly before the footsteps rounded the corner. "I know we didn't negotiate, but take this now," he added, thrusting the notes into the hand Rose had raised in order to wave him off, "and I can give you more later, if four hundred isn't enough."

"Sherlock, no, I-"

Rose's protest was cut short as Sherlock's attention was drawn to the elderly couple who appeared on the stairs below them. Rose closed her hand around the notes and dropped her arm to her side.

"Ah, Mr and Mrs Peterson?" Sherlock asked them cordially.

Rose stepped back toward the closed door to the kitchen to allow the couple to step up onto the landing, and managed to direct a small, polite smile to them.

"This way," Sherlock directed them, ushering them into the living room. He glanced back and winked at a still stunned Rose, and then entered his living room after his clients.

Rose's heart beat dully in her chest, and her eyes stung once more.

 _Nothing, Rose,_  she thought as she descended the stairs.  _You're nothing to him - just a common, garden variety whore._

_._


	18. Gunpowder, Treason, and Pot

"If you're looking for your stash of marijuana," Sherlock began, speaking in lazy disinterest, "I've moved it inside the cover of the green cushion on the floor, the one kicked under the bed. Kind of appropriate, that it's a green cushion with a leafy design on it." He chuckled at his own ingenuity.

Rose's whole demeanour hardened even further. She wanted the man out of her flat. Not only had he broken into her residence while she was at work, and reorganised her underwear drawer out of boredom, but he had also found her weed and took it upon himself to find another location in which to hide it.

She sighed and dropped to the floor. She called through the bedroom doorway, "Get the fuck out of my flat!" and then bent low to retrieve the dusty cushion from its resting place underneath the bed.

Rose had returned home after obtaining a lift from Tracey Yale, her immediate supervisor. She hated the three block walk from Bayswater Station back to her flat that late at night, and it was a saving grace she could obtain a regular lift from Tracey on the odd nights she worked. She had waved Tracey goodbye at the kerb, then proceeded into the Leinster Gardens block of flats. She was mentally exhausted, and grabbed at her earlobe to yank it a couple of times, a slight relief from the dull ache she'd been feeling there all evening.

 _Shower, peaceful bonding with Mary Jane, then bed._  Not her usual routine, but the addition of the marijuana had become a necessity on nights such as these. She last indulged a little over six months ago, so it wasn't like she had an addiction problem. Was it?

She had let herself into her first floor flat, hand poised to turn on the light switch the second she opened the door, but she was momentarily thrown by the fact that it was already on.

"Ah, Rose," Sherlock remarked, not moving from his reclined position on her small sofa.

Barefooted, in his shirt and trousers, stretched out lengthways, his hands steepled under his chin, eyes closed, his jacket folded in half lengthways and draped over a nearby armchair along with his coat and scarf - he looked perfectly comfortable and at home. In  _her_  home.

Rose's stomach churned and dropped a few inches. And then the lead weight was replaced by the light flutter of butterflies. It wasn't as if Sherlock had been far from her thoughts. He had occupied her mind, a constant background hum, since she had left his flat at lunchtime. Her feelings see-sawed between unrequited love for him, and disgust with herself for ever thinking she meant more to him that a paid bed-fellow.

"What are you doing here? How did you get in?" She fired her questions at him, striding toward him on the sofa after dumping her bag down onto the armchair. He barely moved.

"Basic five pin lock system," he drawled. "Hardly secure. I merely had to rake along the pins-"

"Sherlock," Rose sighed wearily. "I'm not in the mood."

She turned and headed toward her bedroom as Sherlock swung his legs off the sofa and sat up.

"Where were you anyway?" he asked in irritation.

Rose stopped in her doorway and turned to look at him, an incredulous look on her face. She couldn't believe his attitude. Did he really think she owed him an explanation?

"I was at work, and it's none of your business."

Sherlock stood up, and slowly walked over to her. Looking bored he pointed out, "Your hair's a bit..." he waggled his fingers in the air, "squashed, where you were wearing one of those phone headset thingies; you keep touching your right ear as if it irritates you from having the earpiece attached for a few hours; you smell like..," he paused, sniffing, "..instant coffee bought in bulk and your hands smell like the kind of antiseptic handsoap they buy in poorly funded organisations." He stopped in front of her and shoved his hands into his pockets, raising his eyebrows in a challenging expression. "Office, phone, late night, former prostitute: phone sex worker," he concluded smugly.

Rose narrowed her eyes at him and frowned. "I hate you. Please leave." Then she turned and slammed her bedroom door shut.

"Oh, I..." Sherlock confessed to the closed door, and not really respecting Rose's last request.

"What the hell!" Rose yelled from within, and then re-opened her bedroom door.

"...may have rearranged some things a bit," he finished not one bit contrite.

"My underwear drawer?" she growled, glaring at him.

He smiled sheepishly and pointed to the kitchen. "And the plastic storage containers."

Rose glanced over to where Sherlock was pointing. Her eyes widened in incredulity. "What's wrong with you? Nobody I know acts like this. _Nobody._ "

"Some of your knickers don't seemed to have..."

"They're crotchless. For FUCKING MEN WITHOUT HAVING TO TAKE THEM OFF!"

"Oh," Sherlock said, his eyes widening at the imagery, and he stepped back from the irate woman.

Yes, well, maybe he  _had_  taken a few liberties upon breaking into her flat. He  _had knocked_ and waited the obligatory five,  _no, was it seven?_  seconds before whipping out his lock-picking set. Upon entering he'd been disappointed to find that there was no Rose showering or listening to loud music and unable to hear his knocking.

He had been extremely agitated; he knew that. He madly paced her living room, his mind racing about all possible reasons for the evening's drama. He hadn't wanted to go home after visiting the hospital; he couldn't face the empty flat again. And he needed someone to talk to, to bounce ideas off. And his skull on the mantelpiece never spoke back. And unfortunately Mrs Hudson did.

So he'd paced around Rose's tiny living room, raked his hand through his hair several times, before finally settling on a nice cup of tea. Very English, very soothing.

However, on rummaging through Rose's kitchen cupboards he noticed that the tea cups were far away from the box of tea, and both were nowhere near the kettle. Very inefficient. He then spent an hour rearranging her entire kitchen into a perfectly ordered world.  _His_ idea of a perfectly ordered world.

There was the small matter of the Rizla papers he'd found in one of the drawers full of other random crap. Where did they belong? To what purpose did they serve? He knew Rose didn't have a smoking habit, so what did she need to roll?  _Oh_ , he thought, all synapses firing and making a possible deduction. _Of course. The occasional marijuana smoker probably._ He wondered why she hadn't developed a harder drug habit over the years, what with her choice of work. Not seeing an ashtray anywhere, Sherlock took a punt and ventured out onto the balcony. Peering into the telltale ashtray he found there, he rubbed the ash between his fingers and sniffed it slightly.  _Skunk from Amsterdam, no, Northern Lights,_  he concluded, smiling smugly. _Mixed with Golden Virginia tobacco. Nice choice._ It only took him nine seconds to figure out where she may have hidden her weed: in her underwear drawer. He had then become distracted by the chaos contained within that. And, well the rest was history. And possibly hysterics, too.

He had flopped back onto the sofa when Rose shut her bedroom door in order to change into something more comfortable. After she'd opened it again, he calmly informed her that he'd relocated her stash.

Shortly after her terse command to Sherlock to fuck off out of her flat, Rose re-emerged from her bedroom holding her little packet of weed, an additional packet of smoking tobacco and the Rizla papers.

"Lighter?" she asked, clearly still seething.

"I thought you wanted me to leave?" Sherlock asked calmly as he pulled on his jacket.

"Where did you move my lighter?" Rose demanded once more.

"You didn't have one, but there's a box of matches in the cupboard above the stove. I thought you might need them there to light the gas cooktop." He spoke in a flat, emotionless voice. Of course he was disappointed at being ordered to leave, now, when he needed...someone.

Rose gritted her teeth. "They were perfectly fine underneath the sink," she muttered, storming into the kitchen.

Sherlock sat back down on the sofa to put on his shoes and socks. Rose set about rolling herself a joint. She decided to ignore Sherlock until he left her in peace. The silence lasted all of fifteen seconds. Sherlock tutted as he stood up and made his way over to Rose.

"You're making a mess of it," he commented, critically eyeing her efforts to roll the weed, the tobacco, her poor excuse for a roach and the paper into something resembling a cylinder. "You should've added more tobacco."

Rose looked toward the ceiling and breathed out, then she closed her eyes as Sherlock approached.  _I just need to get through this. Just go_ , she wished, but only half-heartedly. She could feel her heart quicken in his presence, and she hated herself for that reaction.

Sherlock reached across her hands. He carefully slid the paper she was using to catch the excess spillage toward himself. He tutted again. "And is that your roach?" he asked holding up the little cardboard filter she had more or less bunched up near the end of the Rizla paper.

Rose rolled her eyes but still watched in fascination as Sherlock's deft handiwork produced a perfect spliff. He twisted the end with a flourish and presented her with the finished product.

"Didn't know you were a stoner," she commented wearily, and placed the joint down onto the benchtop in order to clean up the mess. She always like to set everything right first, before allowing herself the pleasure of lighting up and drifting blissfully away.

"Oh, I've tried everything," Sherlock said nonchalantly as he made his way back to the living room. He retrieved his scarf and lazily wound it around his neck while declaring, "Before I settled on cocaine."

Rose was momentarily startled. " _Settled_  on cocaine? Who  _settles_  on cocaine?"

"It's a stimulant. I found it clarified my mind and heightened my senses. The perfect antidote to boredom," he replied, raising his eyebrows to punctuate his statement.

"You do coke when you're bored?" Rose asked incredulously. She grabbed her matches and the joint and walked over to the front door to retrieve her coat from the adjacent coat rack.

"Not use.  _Used_. Past tense. The work, my cases, are stimulating enough. But I don't use anymore. I haven't in a long while. Just nicotine. Which reminds me," he said absentmindedly patting his arm. "I'm out of nicotine patches."

Rose peered at him as she pulled on her coat. "But you seem... so... straight. I didn't think you took anything stronger than... tea," she remarked, raising an eyebrow. Then she added facetiously, "And biscuits."

Sherlock grabbed his coat from the armchair and pulled it on as a smile played on his lips. "It was purely a chemical requirement. Nothing to do with antisocial behaviour."

Rose made her way to the sliding door which led out onto the balcony, just off the tiny dining area. "I'm stepping outside to light up. Want to... join me? For a chat that is. I'm not allowed to smoke inside."

Sherlock furrowed his brow but he felt his heart lifting. "I thought you wanted me to leave?"

"Well, I've calmed down a bit," she replied, shrugging a little. "And after this, I'll be completely chilled. You may as well tell me why you felt compelled to rummage through my underwear drawer," she added with a half-smile before sliding the door open and stepping outside.

Outside of her own stress, she could sense Sherlock's underlying tension. He didn't act like a man who had broken into her flat just to get laid. He must feel lonelier in the evenings, she concluded, when the day's activities had ended and he just needed someone to sit and talk to.

And she...liked him. She'd spent all afternoon during her boring job processing invoices internally debating the issue of the payment. Well, why wouldn't he pay her? There was always precedent. Except for their very last encounter before his 'suicide' he had always paid her for sex. The 'free' one was a goodbye present - she'd insinuated as much. So...it was her fault really for not setting him straight. And Rose definitely wanted reasons to  _not_  hate him.

Sherlock sighed in relief and followed Rose out onto the balcony. He really hadn't wanted to leave, but for some reason he hated seeing Rose all worked up like that, and thinking, rather disappointedly, that he had been the cause. Still, the presence of the marijuana seemed to indicate that she sometimes had stressful days, and he knew he hadn't always been around to have been the trigger on those previous occasions. Conclusion: not his fault.

Rose had settled into an outdoor chair and had already lit up. Sherlock seated himself on the only other plastic chair available. Rose leant her head back against the chair and directed her gaze skyward.

"So," she began, exhaling the smoke and momentarily closing her eyes. "My underwear."

Sherlock chuckled to himself. "It all began with a cup of tea," he said, lacing his fingers together in his lap.

Rose laughed, trying to imagine a scenario of events that would begin with a cup of tea and ending with Sherlock and his hands in her underwear. Not an odd sequence of events. They'd once had tea in his flat and that little party had ended with Sherlock's hands elsewhere. She felt warmed by the memory, and only half-listened to Sherlock explaining why he thought her kitchen cupboards had been organised to the point of inefficiency.

"Let's go back to the tea," she said in a tone reminiscent of her role playing as a counsellor back at university. Mary Jane's light caress had already begun to lift Rose's stress away. "Tell me why you were having tea in my flat without me being home in the first place?" she asked, before inhaling once more.

"It was quicker coming here after the hospital, rather than going home," Sherlock replied, with a sideways glance at Rose.

As Rose had only just started toking, she had enough processing power to know that Baker Street was infinitely closer to Bart's hospital than Leinster Gardens was. "Quicker?" she asked.

"Well, when I say quicker, I'm thinking in terms of efficiency, and ...er.." Sherlock looked down, picking an imaginery piece of fluff from his coat, "...logistics of speed and," he cleared his throat, "...ergonomics."

Rose took another long drag and asked, while holding her breath, "What?"

Sherlock just raised his eyebrows at her in response and with a tilt of his head he gave her the impression there was some logic in his explanation that she had clearly missed.

Rose eventually exhaled and commented through slitted eyes, "You seem to be starting at the end and working backwards. I can't think like that. Start from the beginning."

Sherlock breathed out deeply, trying to put his own random thoughts in order.

_Fish 'n chips. Mary. Skip-code. Motorbike. St James the Less._

He took a sharp intake of breath before offering his explanation in a rapid-fire manner. "John was drugged, abducted and buried underneath a pile of wood which was lit in order for young children to experience what it's like to burn another human being as a punishment for treason."

Rose was silent for a minute while she contemplated Sherlock's words. She blinked a couple of times before toking again. "John was being punished...for treason?" she asked eventually.

Sherlock sighed and turned to Rose with an irritated glare. "You're not normally this stupid."

Rose sat up from her semi-slumped position and retorted, "And funnily enough," she pointed at him with her joint, "you're always this rude." And then she smiled at him and preceded to giggle.

Sherlock stood up and thrust his hands into his coat pockets, frowning at her. He was getting worked up again, and Rose's present mood wasn't helping. "Bonfire night. Guy Fawkes. They were burning an _effigy_ of the scapegoat of the Gunpowder Plot. Someone concealed John in the woodpile beforehand."

Rose drew her legs up onto the chair, hugging her knees. She breathed out slowly, trying to make sense of Sherlock's words, and knew it wasn't just the effects of the marijuana that was causing her to not understand him. Or maybe it was? "I know who Guy Fawkes is. Who doesn't? But that sounds like the middle of the story now." She peered at Sherlock through lidded eyes. "I have no idea why John was drugged, abducted and … um.." She had momentarily forgotten the last thing and frowned while trying to remember. "Oh...put under a bonfire."

"And neither do I, Rose. That's the point. Can I use some of your tobacco?" And without waiting for a reply, Sherlock re-entered the flat. He needed a stimulant if he was going to make any headway with this mystery, and bouncing ideas off Rose with her slowly getting high was clearly not going to work.

Meanwhile Rose had bowed her head onto her knees and held the joint aloft, resting her hand on her head. "Here," she said, in a vague gesture of offering Sherlock a toke and not noticing that he had left.

She closed her eyes and thought about John being buried under a pile of wood. That sounded scary. Really, really scary. Poor John! How long was he there for? All alone. And...scared.

She was in the same position when Sherlock re-emerged onto the balcony with a self-rolled cigarette.

"Matches?" he asked.

Rose stopped being scared on John's behalf when she heard Sherlock's words. "It's already lit," she replied, lifting her head and holding out the joint to Sherlock before realising he was holding his own roll-up. "Don't you want to share? 'Snot very sociable."

"This is just tobacco," he responded in a condescending tone.

"Well I think you need this," Rose insisted, raising an eyebrow. "You seem .. _.tense_ ," she added, laughing.

Sherlock's face hardened and he made his way across the balcony to retrieve the box of matches from the table on the other side of Rose. "Do you know what THC will do to my brain?" he challenged.

"What's THC?"

Sherlock struck a match and lit the end of his cigarette. He inhaled as he shot Rose a look in disbelief. "It happens to be the main chemical in that joint you're smoking. It's primarily responsible for your high: tetrahydracannabinol. It causes..."

Rose breathed in and closed her eyes. She didn't manage to catch Sherlock's lengthy explanation about cannabinoid receptors and neurotransmitters. He could've been speaking for a minute, or perhaps ten, but when she opened her eyes again he was sitting back in his chair and scowling at her.

He was sitting closer to the railing now so he could rest his legs up on it. "It will affect my energy levels, my concentration and my ability to delve into my Mind Palace," he said, thereby concluding his argument.

 _One room at a time_ , he thought, remembering the few occasions he had smoked cannabis at university. Instead of multiple clones of himself accessing several rooms at once, as was his normal state, when high only a single Sherlock was able to navigate the vast maze of rooms that was his Mind Palace. A big mistake.

At first he thought he could harness the powers of his high: he discovered that he could focus on determining the energy of benzene based on the Hückel approximation without being distracted by his annoying roommate strumming random chord progressions. But then an oak tree beckoned from outside his window and with that, a dainty bumble bee. Sherlock found that he was no longer standing in his inorganic chemistry library with the Hückel Theory chapter open, he was suddenly lying in the flower bed of his garden room with a voice in his ear telling him that _bumble bees have particularly large and heavy bodies and flight for them can be a real effort_. The old biology professor who inhabited this room of his Mind Palace droned on and on about clever queen bumble bees.

When his roommate finally roused him from his reverie he was startled to discover that he was standing by the window, forehead pressed up against the glass and the calculation of the energy of cyclohexatriene still incomplete and abandoned on his desk.

"Your what?" Rose asked, but she was already giggling.

The instant Sherlock said it out loud he regretted it. He sighed and remained reticent, but Rose would have none of that. She stood up in order to drag her chair alongside Sherlock's.

"Your what?" she asked again, more gleefully than before as she sat back down and leaned closer to Sherlock. Her face shone in the glow of both their burning embers. "Mind  _what_?"

"Rose," Sherlock murmured in exasperation, taking a drag on his cigarette and desperately trying to ignore the annoying insect buzzing by his side.

"Did you say palace?" She was actually _leaning across his chest_  now and staring up into his face. A bit hard to ignore.

Sherlock looked down at her expectant face. He'd never seen Rose looking so jubilant and full of life before.

And stoned.

"It's a method of memorising, by storing memories in various locations," Sherlock said in an even voice.

Rose was still leaning across Sherlock's chair, staring up at him. "Why?" she asked, slowly blinking.

"It's a memorisation tool."

Rose snorted and started laughing, draped across Sherlock. She bowed her head onto his arm, as she trembled with laughter.

Sherlock sighed once again, took another drag on his cigarette, then gently eased Rose from his arm.

"Off, Rose, you're touching me."

"Touching you?" she asked, bewildered, and still giggling lightly.

"It's irritating."

"Me touching you?" she asked, her eyes wide in amusement.

Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes again. "Yes. I don't like to be touched so frivolously."

Rose snorted and descended into a fit of giggling again. "But, I've...I've..." She hugged her knees and continued laughing into her lap while Sherlock looked on, unimpressed.

He continued smoking and staring intently at the buildings opposite, his mind trying to return to his unsolved mystery, but the background buzz of Rose still trying to stifle her laughter kept intruding into his thought process.

Rose tried to compose herself long enough to say, "But I've …. sucked you off until you came." Then she dissolved once more, prompting Sherlock to return his legs to the ground and abruptly stand up.

"Right, I'm going inside."

"What?" Rose asked faintly.

"You should too. You're shivering and you don't even realise it," he said sternly.

Sherlock stubbed his cigarette out into the ashtray and waited for Rose while she peered intently at the remainder of her joint. He slid the glass door open, and waited patiently for her to deposit it into the ashtray. She shuddered and wound her arms around herself.

" _Fuckitscold_ ," she slurred as she re-entered the flat.

She then shuffled over to the sofa with her coat still on and curled up onto it as Sherlock slid the door shut and drew the drapes across. He shrugged off his coat and left it and his scarf hanging over the back of an armchair. Throwing a glance at Rose's huddled form, he grabbed her laptop from the coffee table. He settled himself down onto the sofa next to her and propped his legs up onto the table. He found that there was no password protection upon firing up the computer, so he immediately commenced surfing the net.

"Are you all right?" he asked after a few minutes.

Rose slowly sat up and rubbed her eyes. "My God," she sighed. "I normally smoke two, but you really packed that one. Fuck's sake," she added, her hands on her cheeks. "I'm perfectly fine." She smiled up at Sherlock through bleary eyes. "You roll them like Billy does. I can't roll for shit."

"Who's Billy?" Sherlock asked, only half-heartedly interested. "Your boyfriend?" His focus remained on the laptop screen. He knew very well that she didn't have a boyfriend.

But that question set off another round of teary-eyed giggling from Rose, so Sherlock ignored her as he navigated her laptop. Rose calmed down eventually. She picked up a nearby cushion and hugged it, finally responding with, "No. He's just a friend."

Sherlock squinted at the screen and commented with a "Mmm."

"A friend of a friend, actually. No," she said, deep in thought. "A brother of a friend. Dear Lord, I can't even remember. I'm only friends with Billy now and not...what's her name?"

"Dunno," Sherlock replied distractedly.

"Valerie...Violet...Veronica! Veronica freakin' Wiggins. That's it. Vee-dub some of the guys called her. I wonder what happened to her?" she mused.

"Murdered?" Sherlock murmured, swiftly typing something into the laptop.

"What?" Rose asked, turning to him in a daze.

"Ignore me. Just thinking out loud." Murder: his default response to a missing person inquiry. He could only live in hope.

Rose pouted as she stared into space. Sherlock typed rapidly beside her. Rose's gaze roamed the room aimlessly, then she eventually stood up and ambled into her kitchen. Noticing that she was still wearing her coat, she set about shedding it, and discarded it onto a dining chair. Tutting, she preceded to open every cupboard in the kitchen in an effort to find her recently relocated cereal box.

"His family practically disowned him years ago," Rose began, her mind wandering back to Billy. Leaving every door open like a mischievous poltergeist, she settled back onto the couch with a box of cornflakes. She commenced munching on them, while staring at the laptop screen. "I still look out for him, not that he needs anyone to do that for him. He's perfectly capable of looking after himself. He supplies me with my weed, and I occasionally feed him," she said through mouthfuls. Sherlock eventually stopped what he was doing to glare at her.

"That's really annoying. Could you eat over there?" he asked, indicating the dining table.

"No, I like watching you," she said continuing to throw handfuls of the crunchy cereal into her mouth. "What's that?" she asked, pointing to the screen.

Sherlock sighed and looked toward the heavens. "Community website. I'm trying to find the organisers of this evening's bonfire - see if they remember anyone lurking nearby while they were preparing the woodpile."

Sherlock was left as a one-man investigation team after Mary, to Sherlock's surprise, had insisted they not inform the police. When an onlooker had called for an ambulance at the bonfire, Mary had explained to the medic that John had collapsed from smoke inhalation, as a result of standing too close to the fire, and she had given Sherlock a quick meaningful look at the time. No other bystanders remained interested long enough to contradict her story once the Guy started to burn good and proper. Sherlock's mind was already overloaded with information, least of all trying to decipher the meaning behind Mary's unconventional behaviour.

Still, he was waiting for Molly to send him the results of John's blood test, so they could at least know what drug he had been administered.

"And it doesn't make sense," he continued, speaking more to himself than to Rose. "I've only just made my presence known. I've been alive for 24 hours, and already someone is threatening my … friend."  _John._

"So this has something to do with you?" Rose asked, rubbing one cheek slowly, then the other.

"Yes. No, I don't know."  _And I hate not knowing_ , he thought, clenching his jaw in exasperation. "They were daring me to find him through text messages sent to his … Mary's phone. They specifically mentioned me. I didn't think I'd been back long enough to piss anybody off."

"Who's Mary?"

"John's...thingamy," Sherlock said scowling.

"But...," Rose began, trying really hard to make sense of the issue. "Is John...?"

"He's fine," Sherlock replied, clicking to another screen. "We took him to Bart's. Molly's taken a blood sample to determine what they drugged him with."

"Right," Rose commented.  _Molly again._ "But is he okay?"

"Yes, I just told you," Sherlock replied irately, shooting a glance at Rose. "A couple of scratches, probably from the various branches which were heaped on top of him, but relatively unscathed. The fire hadn't touched him by the time we got him out."

"No, I mean...he'd be pretty shaken up about it. He'll need someone to talk to."

"Oh, I questioned him," Sherlock replied dismissively. "He didn't say much - not to me, anyway," Sherlock added sullenly. "Didn't get a look at the assailant - guessed there were two of them."

Rose shook her head slightly. "I'm talking about the trauma of it. He should talk to a...a... crisis counsellor or something."

"Oh that. Well, he has a  _therapist_ ," Sherlock answered with distaste.

"That's good."

"You know, for the war thingy."

"What?"

"Because he was a  _soldier._ "

Rose stared at Sherlock for a moment. He was still busily navigating between screens. She still couldn't believe he hadn't made a connection between his actions and the effect it would have on those close to him. She reached over and rested her hand on Sherlock's, preventing him from moving the cursor. She said in a careful voice, "He had a friend who committed suicide in front of him. And then the friend showed up alive in a restaurant two years later. May need to talk about those things, too."

Sherlock tutted and moved his hand from underneath Rose's. He muttered, "Dull."

Rose finished her snack and placed the box down onto the coffee table, prompting Sherlock to look up. "So why did you need to get high tonight?" he asked curiously. "Is it a highly stressful job—this talking about sex and pretending to get off over the phone to random strangers?"

Much to Sherlock's annoyance, Rose commenced giggling again, although the intensity of her initial euphoria had reduced considerably.

"What was that you said earlier?" she asked, trembling with mirth. She pointed to her ear and said, "Headset," then she thought for a moment and pointed to herself, "Former prostitute, therefore phone sex worker?"

Sherlock scowled and sighed deeply. She was ridiculing him for some reason, and he didn't like it.

Rose's lips threatened to stretch wide, and she said through slitted eyes, "You forgot 'Psychology graduate'." She pointed to her ear once more. "Headset,  _psychology graduate._.." She held out her hands, waiting for a response from Sherlock. When all she was met with was a cold glare, she finished, "Crisis line volunteer."

Sherlock let her words reverberate through his mind before responding. "Oh," he said, his face falling. He hated being wrong.

"And I didn't know whether any of the five callers I spoke to tonight were going to end the call and then top themselves." Rose grabbed the cushion again. She sat sideways on the sofa with her knees up, facing Sherlock. Hugging the cushion, she continued, "I'm not allowed to offer counselling just yet. I've only been trained, according to the organisation, to refer the callers to a counselling service. I find it hard to let go, hence the pot." She sighed, leaning her side into the back of the sofa. "I'm probably not suitable for the job, but I can fake it like the best of them, until I get home - then I'm a bit of a mess."

There was silence for a moment until Rose reached for the cereal box again.

"So you volunteer at a crisis centre?" Sherlock asked, tearing himself away from the laptop screen once more.

Rose nodded. "Yes, I volunteer, which is why I still need a paying job. Two actually. I can't get an internship anywhere else. I applied everywhere, even the mental institutions like Copper Beeches. So I've decided to be a counsellor when I grow up." She popped a single cornflake into her mouth and said, while crunching, "I'm working the other way round - getting practical experience, if I can remember Counselling 101, and work my way up from there. At the moment I'm only needed around holidays." She paused for a moment, as she slowly blinked, overcome by tiredness. "That's when people get suicidal," she said, yawning. "When they see families and communities celebrating. Christmas and New Year are pretty busy at the centre, and any smaller celebrations like Guy Fawkes Night. Funny, hey?"

Sherlock didn't think it was funny. Suicides only registered as a blip on his radar when there were unusual circumstances, like serial suicides, for example, his own suicide notwithstanding. "So has anyone ever...topped themselves after you've..." Sherlock began. He hesitated, not knowing whether Rose was going to get upset at his question or not.

"After I've...offered them comfort or help?" She raised an eyebrow and a smile grew on her face. "Just you," she said pointedly, then slowly popped another handful of cornflakes into her mouth.

Sherlock looked away from Rose, his face impassive but his insides churning. For some reason he was transported back to those hours sitting in a lab at Barts, bouncing the squash ball back and forth, every scenario of how to cheat death playing out in his head. So many things had to go right, but it was just as likely that one small thing could go wrong and he would actually end up dead. In the middle of his mental calculations he did receive a text from a number he didn't recognise. He had queried it only fleetingly, then never gave it another thought, until now.

Sherlock fished his mobile out of his pocket and swiftly navigated to his messages. Rose continued to crunch beside him, staring unseeing at the laptop screen.

"Was this you?" he asked, showing her a message on his phone.

_Thinking about you this morning. I'm here for you if you need._

"Yeah," she replied in surprise after squinting at the screen. "A bit lame, sorry. You still have it?"

"My brother made sure everything on my previous phone was transferred over to my new phone."

He shoved his phone back into his pocket and regarded the woman before him. Her eyes were drawn back to the laptop screen, like a moth to a flame. Sherlock wondered what she had thought about him at the time. The message was sent on the day the headlines screamed he was a fake. She had wanted him to know she supported him. Just like John. John, who had insisted he didn't believe Sherlock had made up his entire world. He had people who had always believed in him, and what had he given them back in return? He had given John the gift of life. But what about Rose?

Sherlock closed the laptop lid, causing Rose to blink slowly as if she were coming out of a trance. He took his feet down off the coffee table, replacing them with the computer. Rose took another mouthful of cereal, but remained transfixed to the spot where the screen used to be.

"Rose," Sherlock said gently.

When she slowly turned her attention to him, he said, "Thank you."

"For what?" she asked sleepily.

"For the message."

Rose gave a tiny shrug. "Doesn't matter. You still jumped."

"I had to." One foot in front of the other. Step up onto the ledge.  _Goodbye John._ "But I still didn't thank you for the sentiment."

Rose ate another handful of cornflakes, so Sherlock gently pried the box from her grasp and placed it on the ground on the other side of the sofa. She didn't protest.

"It means a lot to me," he said in a low voice. "Thank you." Sherlock leant forward and, cupping his hand to one side of her face, he planted a soft kiss on her other cheek. He left his hand there, gently stroking her cheekbone.

Rose swallowed her mouthful and said, "You're so nice, Sherlock."

Sherlock gave her a small smile in response. Her brought his other hand up, cradling her face, and kept his eyes on hers until he lowered his head and pressed their lips together. When they drew apart, Rose kept her eyes closed for a second longer. They fluttered open again as a smile grew on her face.

"I really like you," she whispered.

Sherlock felt his face flush, and he couldn't fathom why. Such vacuous, unnecessary words, he thought, but she had uttered them with conviction and warmth - words he'd not heard anyone else ever say to him without them adding "but". He waited a beat for the "but", however Rose continued to smile at him. Sherlock felt compelled to respond in kind. "I...," he began, tasting each unfamiliar word as it left his mouth. "...like...you, too."

His words had an effect on Rose he didn't anticipate despite his experience and ability to read people. Her face brightened and she seemed wide awake now. Clutching at his shirt, she pulled him down to capture his mouth with hers. Pushing him into the back of the sofa, Rose climbed onto his lap their lips still locked. She left off kissing him long enough to ask breathily, "Do you know what's amazing?" Her eyes were still slitted and glassy, but she raised her eyebrows in a challenge.

Sherlock delved into his Mind Palace, retrieving one of the few references to "amazing" that he had indexed in there. He retrieved,  _That...was amazing_ , uttered by John Watson during their first ever cab ride together on their way to Lauriston Gardens in Brixton. That statement was in response to the first set of deductions Sherlock had ever rattled off to John. He sought to enlighten Rose, because, well, she  _had_  asked.

"The fact that I knew that John had been in the military and his country of service was either Afghanistan or Iraq based on the fact that he had a military-style haircut and the manner in which he carried himself as he entered the research laboratory. He was familiar enough with Bart's hospital. I garnered that information from his opening remarks to his friend Mike Stamford. And then there was the origin of his phone. A gift from his sibling. I said brother - Harry - who was to know Harry was short for Harriet. An alcoholic too. It was the scratches on the charging outlet. You never see a drunk's phone without those telltale marks. And the engraving - Clara. Clearly a romantic attachment. Girlfriend? No, more significant. Wi-"

He paused as he took in Rose's very confused-looking face.

"Ah," he remarked after a fashion. "You mean, 'Do you know' as in the rhetorical sense."

Rose rearranged her features but still came off looking confused. "I don't know anymore," she said slowly.

Sherlock tutted as Rose leant back. He thought he ought to prompt the poor confused woman in her current state.

"You asked me if I knew what was amazing."

Rose blinked twice. "Oh!" she exclaimed, still thrown by Sherlock's lengthy and obscure explanation. "Do you know what's amazing?" she asked again in a slightly less enthusiastic tone.

Sherlock tilted his head a tad, as if thinking. Narrowing he eyes, he said, tentatively, "No."

Rose's eyes widened in excitement. "Having sex while stoned!"

"Oh," Sherlock responded politely. He wasn't expecting that. "Good."

"Roll us another one!" she said as she climbed off his lap. "And I'll wait in the bedroom."

"No, Rose," Sherlock said, grasping her wrist before she went anywhere. He stood up and held onto her other arm, turning her to face him so that he had her full attention. "Not now. I have a phone call to make first. Remember? The bonfire man? And I'm working on a case, so I can't smoke cannabis."

"Oh," she pouted, looking completely disappointed.

"So, you wait in the bedroom, and I'll be in soon, okay?" he said gently.

Rose narrowed the gap between them, pressing her body up against Sherlock's and winding her arms around his neck when he released his grip.

"Promise?" she asked.

"Promise," he repeated, then he preceded to kiss her slowly, savouring her taste for later. Because there _would_  be a later.

He let her pull away from him and watched as she languidly floated toward her bedroom. He knew she would fall asleep the minute her head hit the pillow. He wouldn't feel like retiring for a long while yet anyway. Perhaps they wouldn't have sex until morning. He didn't fancy fucking Rose while she was high, despite her obvious preference for it.

He had a perpetrator to find, and God help whoever had drugged and abducted his friend. Two years of espionage, solitude and violence had turned Sherlock Holmes into someone not to be fucked with.

.

 


	19. Les Miserables

_Idiots_ , Sherlock thought. _How could you not spot a couple of burly men half-dragging, half-carrying a body of a man across the green toward the woodpile, prying apart logs, sticks and timber to make a little hidey-hole in which to stow him?_

"People chuck all kindsa stuff out at bonfire night, mate," Mr Granger had said defensively. "Old doors, pallets, chairs. Long as nuffin' explodes, I don't give a toss what they bring to contribute. Communi'y spirit 'n all. Coulda bin a roll of old carpet, far as I'm concerned."

"Well you're concern is misplaced," Sherlock hissed before the injured Mr Granger ended the call on him, calling the Consulting Detective a "right toff!" as he did so.

That was the last phone call Sherlock needed to make for the night. He'd spoken to Molly - nothing unusual or telling about the sedative used to incapacitate John. He'd only sent a text to Mary, instead of calling her. John was asleep, she replied, but his awake times were growing longer. He didn't remember any other details according to Mary.

_Dead ends, all of them._

_Useless._

He meditated on the sofa for a long while, barefooted, in his shirt and trousers, as he had done earlier that evening before Rose had returned home. Sherlock had sent her to bed hours ago, but his brain wasn't anywhere near sleep.

When it was two in the morning, he sat up, swivelled his legs to the ground, and vigorously rubbed his hands through his hair, leaning his elbows onto his knees.  _Why isn't this making any sense_ , he thought fiercely, holding his hair by the roots. He closed his eyes and breathed out deeply.  _Bed, sleep_ , he tried coaxing himself.  _You don't have to keep watch tonight. You're not in danger if you nod off._ Strangely enough, he always thought the sensible part of his brain always sounded eerily like John.

He forced himself to stand, to walk the short distance to Rose's bedroom, where he stood in the doorway staring at her slumbering form by the light of the bedside lamp she had left on. Clenching his jaw, he wondered again why he was here. He knew why. He needed her - well, someone, anyone.

_And I can't have John._

That sinking feeling returned to the pit of his stomach.  _Two years._  Two years he'd been away - clearly too long, for everything had changed. Mycroft had estimated 14 months at the most, but what did he know? His brother had somehow missed the neo-ninjas in Vilnius, and once you factor them in - plus his capture and subsequent torture in Serbia, going to ground in a cottage on the outskirts of the village of Kleszczewo in Poland months earlier, where he learnt how to make sourdough rye bread, and the extended jury service in Hamburg - the British Government's little schedule in Microsoft Excel was always going to be out by  _months_. Mycroft said it was all Sherlock's fault of course.

Sherlock momentarily left the bedroom to turn off all of the lights in the living areas. He shed his shirt and trousers and hung them neatly in Rose's wardrobe. He then made his way over to one side of the bed. Rose was lying in the middle. Clearly she didn't have a  _side_. Well, neither did he when it came down to it. The middle of a double bed was where single people slept. He leant over and pushed on the back of Rose's shoulders and lower back, sliding her to one side. He watched in some amusement as she rolled onto her other side, arms and legs once again finding the middle of the bed as if it were North and she were a needle on a compass.

As there was still room on that side, Sherlock lay down on his back, reached up and turned out the bedside light. He lay in darkness for several minutes, his mind trying to recreate the events of the evening.

John had been abducted between 4pm and 5pm, as that's when he remembered grabbing a cab from work to Baker Street. Sherlock had felt guilty the moment Mary had relayed that detail to him. John was going to visit  _him_. John wanted to see him. John was possibly no longer angry with him.

And then he'd been stashed under a bonfire  _because_  of him.

Sherlock's emotions flittered between guilt for being responsible for his friend once again being endangered because some gutless criminal wanted to taunt the detective, and anger towards the village idiots who had observed  _nothing unusual_  that evening.

His seemingly pointless mental meanderings were interrupted by Rose sliding over and somehow ending up resting her head on his chest, with one arm flung casually across him. Her hair, all those fine little tentacles, were tickling and torturing his skin. He tried to brush them away, but they were attached to her  _head_ for God's sake. He could  _maybe possibly_ put up with her dead weight on his chest - but the hair! It had to go. No, actually he couldn't put up with her weight on his chest. It felt awkward, and now he couldn't roll onto his side. What was the point of this? Why did people -  _couples -_  think this was a nice way to sleep?

_Cuddling._

_Touching._

_Wispy bits of hair all over the place, brushing and wriggling and burning my skin with their silky poison._

Sherlock gently lifted up Rose's head and arm, and slid sideways out of the bed. He let them drop and she murmured something incoherent. Sherlock walked around to the other side and lay down once more. He felt a slight movement of the compass Rose repositioning herself to the magnetic poles of her bed, so he quickly grabbed a spare pillow and plopped it down next to him. Sure enough, Rose's arm snaked across the barrier and he heard her breathe a contented sigh.

Problem solved.

Sherlock drifted in and out of what he thought was a dreamless sleep until morning. In all, he'd probably slept three and a half hours in total. He wanted to get up and roll another cigarette, but that would mean getting completely dressed in order to smoke out on the balcony in the frigid dawn air, if he respected Rose's tenancy restrictions at all. And all he would have to stare at would be the lifeless buildings across the street - a poor way to herald in the day.

Because the sun rose behind the flat, Sherlock would only be able to see in the dawn if he sat in the bathroom. In complete contrast, lying on a soft mattress on the floor of a stilt house on Inle Lake, among the Intha people of Burma, provided him with the most remarkable sunrise he had ever experienced. During Sherlock's two years away, he came to welcome the dawn. His insomnia, or as he liked to call it, minimum sleep requirement, had him waiting out the hours until the sun rose, so he would have an excuse for being awake.

It was only just after six, and the sunrise of England's early winter was almost an hour away, so Sherlock padded into the bathroom to relieve himself, switching on the living area lights as he went.

 _Nocturnal temescence_ , he thought, his brain quietly cataloguing his morning wood. He wasn't aroused, not by any stretch; it was just a physiological reaction to a full bladder.

But his thoughts drifted back to Rose as he washed his hands and splashed cold water on his face.

Rose.

_Your only three friends in the world will die...unless..._

_Unless I kill myself..._

Moriarty had not only neglected to include Molly Hooper in his targeting of Sherlock's friends, but he had had no idea about Rose.

Could he consider Rose a friend though?

Sherlock re-entered the bedroom, leaving the door ajar so that the light from the living area spilled into the room. He searched his mental database for the personal attributes necessary to qualify as a friend.

_Someone with whom you have a bond of mutual affection, excluding sexual or familial relations._

_Oh,_  he thought disappointedly, and he regarded Rose's slumbering body with something resembling affection.

_But she likes me. She admitted it. Granted, she was high, but marijuana doesn't predispose people to lie._

Thinking about Rose and recalling her body pressed firmly against his mere hours ago added a new vigour to Sherlock's erection. His internal musings about the nature of their relationship became strictly one-sided as he focussed on the activity in which he now desired to engage, in order to wile away the minutes before dawn.

"Rose," he whispered as he lay back down beside her.

She remained in her sleep state, hugging the pillow Sherlock had placed between them earlier. Sherlock lay with his face only a few inches from hers, studying her features intently in the half light.

 _Relaxed_ , he concluded.  _Completely at peace with the world. Do I ever look like that when I finally manage to nod off? Am I ever at peace with the world?_

Before he knew what he was doing, Sherlock ran his thumb along the smooth skin between Rose's brows, noting that there were no furrowed lines of stress or anxiety. When she didn't stir, he narrowed the gap between them and planted a small kiss in the same area. Rose stirred and murmured, "Sherlock," but she didn't open her eyes or show other signs of being awake. Sherlock was sure there was now a small hint of a smile ghosting her lips. He grinned at her reaction.

 _You're so nice, Sherlock,_ she had said to him.  _I really like you._

She was a nice... _whatever she was_ , he concluded. And he didn't need to go to sleep alone, or wake up with just the sun as a companion when he had her nearby. The money tainted things a bit - having to pay for her company. Would she ever want to be around him if she didn't receive monetary compensation? Sherlock didn't like to venture into that territory. He was content to keep the arrangement as it was, rather than find out she was another person who could be appalled by him.

But anyway - back to waking her up.

He planted small kisses along her jaw, before pressing his lips to hers. Soft and small and sweet.

 _You can't have that,_ she had warned him so long ago. _My kisses. On the lips. You can't have that._

But he had that now. Just when had she changed her mind? What was different between them? She thought they were saying goodbye the first time they had kissed. It turns out that they were, for a time. She had tried to kiss him again before he left for his stint abroad, but he had splashed cold water on that one. Then again upon his return - that one was far more welcoming.

 _She doesn't mind giving it out now, but then again, it's not like we can go backwards. Still,_  thought Sherlock,  _I shall endeavour to return every one._

He kissed her again, lingering there, his eyes closed, focussing on her taste, the feel of her full lips against his. He felt her responding, tentatively at first, and then her kiss transformed into a smile as her eyes fluttered open. Sherlock drew back in boyish innocence in anticipation of Rose's reaction.

"What are you doing?" she asked sleepily. Her eyes were puffy from sleep, but there was a hint of satisfaction there.

Sherlock frowned and replied, tilting his head slightly, "I'd have thought it was...fairly obvious?"

Rose's grin broadened. "Have you only just come to bed? What time is it?"

"It's morning. I've already slept."

"It can't be," Rose said groggily, her brow furrowing in protest. Sherlock moved away from her as she struggled to sit up. She turned to look around at the bedside table where her mobile phone was charging.

"It's just after six," Sherlock informed her before she could reach back to check her phone.

"Well, that's too early," she said with a sigh, and she flopped back down onto the pillow. Closing her eyes, she added, "Wake me up at seven."

Sherlock frowned. That wasn't his plan. What's he supposed to do now? Nurse an erection for another 45 minutes?

"Are you going to lie back down?" Rose asked through slitted eyes, and she ran her hand enticingly over the mattress next to her.

Sherlock's face brightened, and he lay down on his side next to her. Rose was half awake, and she reached across to caress Sherlock's face. He closed his eyes briefly, silently appreciating her soft touch. It was fine when he was craving to be touched, like now. Such a strong desire was never part of his makeup. Never? His mind searched for any fleeting memories. Nothing. Unless he'd deleted them.

He opened his eyes again and met her gaze. "Are you going to kiss me again?" she asked, looking hopeful.

"Would you like me to?"

"Yes, please."

Sleep had made Rose's mouth soft and warm and desirable, and Sherlock hummed in satisfaction as her tongue slipped in between his lips to seductively tease him. The heat slowly built up between them until the sound of Sherlock's phone buzzing on the side table pierced the silence.

Dammit, he thought. He left off kissing Rose to reach over and not only reject the call, but turn the phone off as well. He had identified the caller as _Mycroft_ , before the screen went black.

Sherlock apologised as Rose slid up to the head of the bed. As she was completely naked, Sherlock's eyes roamed appreciatively over her body.

"See anything you like?" Rose challenged.

Sherlock raised a brow. "Is this your attempt at visual stimulation?"

Rose laughed sweetly at Sherlock's attempt to mock his former virginal self. "How am I doing so far?"

"You're the expert," he said, prowling up to her. "You tell me." And he stretched out along her entire length, pressing himself against her.

If Rose had a response it was swiftly smothered by Sherlock's mouth demanding hers again. Rose molded herself under him and tangled her fingers in his hair. This time there was no careful and tentative bonding of two souls reclaiming a lost passion. The urgency of both their needs saw each of them fighting for dominance over the other. They'd rolled and Rose had the upper hand as she sought to keep Sherlock submissive under her deft touch at the same time as she swiftly retrieved a condom from her bedside drawer.

"Wasted opportunity," she heard Sherlock murmur.

She laughed lightly as she straddled him. "You mean this isn't one for your spreadsheet?" she asked, holding up the packet.

"What is it?" he asked, his voice ragged, and his hands unceasing in their tender caress along Rose's spine.

"Ultra thin, extra lube?"

"It'll do," he rasped, and she was upon him again, her mouth working wonders before she was ready to have him inside her.

Sherlock felt as if he could do as he pleased as Rose shuddered and arched on top of him. They moved together, matching each other, giving and yielding until the primal pleasure that had built up inside was released, battering them both, and blanking Sherlock's mind.

Rose longed to hold Sherlock to her with as much urgency as his need to be rid of her touch. She dutifully dropped her arms from around him and he rolled away and lay panting by her side. Rose looked over to him. His eyes were closed but his breath still came in shallow bursts. Rose lay on her side, studying him.

"Stop it," Sherlock muttered.

"Stop what?"

"Staring at me and thinking about me." Sherlock could almost feel the intensity of her gaze and found it almost as painful as the individual strands of her hair niggling his skin earlier.

"I've just had sex with you," Rose said defensively. "I'm basking in the after glow."

Sherlock breathed out deeply, opened his eyes and fixed Rose with a probing gaze.

"It's irritating." He had wanted all of her only moments ago, but post-orgasm he wanted to be left in solitude.

Rose wanted to ask him if he'd been thinking about her just then, but something told her she'd be disappointed by his response. She was beginning to expect a certain amount in coldness in him. _Hyper-sensitivity disorder_ , she thought.  _Must start taking notes on this man._

She lay on her back then reached over to grab her phone. Unplugging it from its charger, she checked the time. She didn't actually have to get out of bed until after seven, so theoretically she could go back to sleep for another half an hour.

Sherlock did the same - reaching over to retrieve his phone. He powered it back on, frowning as several message notifications lit up his screen. He tutted and navigated to the first message.

"Mycroft," he muttered in exasperation, and he sat up.

"Your brother?" Rose asked. "Is that who rang before?"

Sherlock swung his legs over the side of the bed. Rising, he replied, "Yes. Great timing as ever."

He disappeared out of the bedroom to clean himself up in the bathroom. When he returned, Rose had pulled the sheets over herself and was attempting to go back to sleep. Sherlock grabbed his underwear from the floor and slid them on.

"Are you leaving now?" Rose asked.

"Yes," he replied, sliding open her wardrobe door. "Thanks to my meddling brother."

Rose sat up and rubbed at her eyes. She watched Sherlock as he unclipped his trousers from the hanger, and noted his furrowed brow. "Is there something wrong?"

Sherlock was preoccupied with his own thoughts, all of which revolved around ways to assassinate his brother. He slid his trousers on before replying to Rose. "Why would there be something wrong?"

"Because he rang so early."

"It's not early. We're both normally awake at this time. The sun never sets on the British Empire anyway," Sherlock muttered as he zipped up his fly.

"British...?"

"Empire. Government."

"Oh. Is he a civil servant?"

Sherlock smiled wryly at Rose's question. "Mycroft isn't anybody's _servant_." He pulled on his shirt as he spoke. "Mycroft Holmes is possibly the most dangerous man you'll ever meet. And right now I'm thinking about dumping his fat-arse body in the Thames. He brought me back to London to hunt down a terrorist cell. Whatever he's playing at this morning though..."

"Does he have another case for you?" Rose asked, watching Sherlock's nimble fingers swiftly manage his shirt buttons.

"No, much worse than that, Rose."

Rose gulped, and her heart fell at the thought of Sherlock having to spend time away fulfilling the requests of his dangerous British Government brother as an anti-terrorist agent.

"Has there been a bombing?" she asked tentatively.

Sherlock sighed and raised his eyes to the heavens. "I can only live in hope." He fixed Rose with a weary look. "No, Rose. He's dropping our parents off at my flat this morning. They're in London for a few days and he thought it would be nice if I fed them tea and biscuits." He scowled and tucked his shirt into his trousers, saying sullenly, "I don't know why I can't just leave the food out on the doorstep."

Rose's eyes widened in incredulity. He thinks his parents coming to visit is worse than a terrorist bombing? "Sherlock," she said, scolding him. "Really! Your parents?"

"I know shocking isn't it? Dumping them on me like this, when London's terror alert has been raised to critical. And now I have to listen to them rabbiting on about Humphrey and Barbara's gall bladder woes and so and so's niece's marriage bust-up."

He looked around for his shoes as a smile grew on Rose's face."They sound lovely," she remarked.

Sherlock sat down on the bed in order to put on his shoes and socks. He glanced back at Rose and said darkly, "How can that sound lovely?"

Rose pulled her knees up under the sheet and hugged them. "Because they make an effort to visit you and tell you about people in their lives despite the fact that you're probably rude to them at every encounter. That's why."

Sherlock preceded to sulk because Rose wasn't taking his side. He shot her a look as he stood up once more. "Are you working today?" he asked, changing the subject.

"Yes. I have to go in early. They've got me opening the store because some of the staff wanted the morning off. Guess they made plans to have a big night for Guy Fawkes celebrations last night."

Sherlock busied himself with the buttons on his cuffs. "Are you going to be home tonight?" he asked, not looking at Rose. He decided he was taking life one night at a time, but he needed assurances that he'd have Rose's company at least some of the time. Or all of the time. He didn't know; he'd only been back two nights so far and had already worked out that he didn't like to spend his nights alone. He felt kind of awkward and self-conscious just asking her outright if he could stay over, or even if she'd spend the night at Baker Street again.

"I'd rather you didn't break into my flat again."

Sherlock tutted. "Then how am I supposed to get in?"

Rose raised an eyebrow. "You knock and wait. Then if there's no answer, you go away. Maybe ring and leave a message. Or better yet, wait until I actually invite you over."

"Why would  _you_  invite  _me_?" Sherlock asked.

Rose was momentarily stunned by Sherlock's question, but he seemed genuinely perplexed.

"Because, we're...I'm..." Rose was at a loss for words. Why would she invite Sherlock over? To hang out? He didn't seem the hanging out type. He seemed to need a very specific reason.

Rose opened her mouth to tell Sherlock that maybe she enjoyed his company, although perhaps enjoyment was too strong a word. _Not as strong as telling him I love him_ , she thought sadly. His phone rang again before she had a chance to confess her inner desires.

"Why are you doing this?" Sherlock snapped into his handset. "Why do they need to see me? … Well can't you send them surveillance footage?"

Rose watched as an irate Sherlock left the bedroom, apparently getting an earful from his older brother. She left the bed, and grabbed at her dressing gown from behind her bedroom door. Wrapping it around herself, she entered the living area and crossed the room to the kitchen. She listened to snatches of Sherlock's conversation as he tried to slide his jacket on while juggling his phone.

"Unless Jean Valjean is an  _actual person_  who needs my help, Mycroft, I'm not setting foot anywhere near the theatre. And besides, it was your promise, not mine."

Rose smiled to herself as she retrieved her set of keys from a kitchen drawer.  _Sherlock at the theatre watching Les Miz? Sounds comical._  She manipulated her duplicate key from the ring and walked over to where Sherlock was standing. He dropped his phone hand and rolled his eyes at Rose. She could still hear the faint sounds of Sherlock's brother talking through the speaker. Rose silently mouthed the word, "Key," and popped it into Sherlock's breast pocket. She wasn't sure how he'd react to being given the key to her flat, but he didn't seem to mind.

Before she could step back, Sherlock put his free hand on her back and pulled her in closer.

"Thank you," he murmured in her ear, before kissing her gently on the cheek. Sherlock was determined to remember to thank those around him who continually attempted to help him. No one should be taken for granted, he concluded, least of all Rose.

His brother's voice still spoke from the phone, but Sherlock embraced Rose using both hands now, causing the lecture to become muffled behind her back. Rose's shivered at his touch and lifted her head to meet Sherlock's gaze. He pressed a soft kiss to her lips, leaving Rose momentarily dazed by the gesture.

"Sherlock. Sherlock! Are you listening?" came Mycroft's voice from the phone.

Sherlock eased his grip on Rose as she gently pushed against his chest. He fixed her with a tiny smile as he lifted the phone once more to his ear.

"Sorry brother dear. I just had to take a piss. I think I left you in the bathroom."

He winked at Rose as she disappeared into the bathroom herself to take a shower. Rose found Sherlock's behaviour slightly odd. Perhaps he felt like he was defying his brother by snogging with a woman while the older sibling was giving him a lecture.  _Dear Lord_ , Rose mused, _this man could really be the subject of an entire Psychologist's conference one day._

Rose took a long shower in preparation for the day ahead. She rather preferred opening the store, as it meant she could leave earlier. It was generally quiet first thing in the morning. She half expected Sherlock to stick his head into the bathroom and say goodbye, waving a few hundred pounds at her. But when he didn't, Rose concluded that he'd slipped away, not really observing social conventions of arrival or departure.

After she'd showered, dressed and lathered a piece of bread with black cherry jam as a sort of breakfast on the go, she grabbed at her keys and handbag ready to exit her flat.

It was the pile of notes on the side table next to a single key that caused her to pause and heave a breath in disappointment.

_Oh, Sherlock._

Payment for services rendered. Rose closed her eyes in resignation. She had neglected to tell that him he didn't need to pay her anymore.

_Fucking stupid cow._

_I'm in love with you Sherlock. There's no need to pay me for my company. Yeah, like you're ever going to say that to him._

Rose stared at the notes a moment longer before offloading her bag and breakfast. She searched her drawers for an old bill or letter in a plain envelope, discarded the contents and then placed the money inside. She opened her purse for the previous day's payment and added it to the envelope so she could give the whole lot back to Sherlock.

 _Eight hundred pounds for two night's work._ Rose felt sickened by the remuneration and she wondered why he had returned the key. Perhaps he realised that there was no way he could keep up with this current financial outlay, and that further visits were no longer feasible. With a sinking heart, Rose picked up the key to return it to her keyring. On second glance, she realised it wasn't the key she had given Sherlock at all. It was...

…. _the key to_ his  _flat._

Her sinking heart was unsurprisingly buoyant again.

Sherlock had traded her key for his. It was an odd sense of commitment that left Rose feeling hopeful and giddy. She decided to visit him once she'd finished work that afternoon, give him the money back, and tell him she would be happy to keep seeing him without payment, because she liked him. She'd already revealed that to him when she was stoned; she at least remembered that much, so it shouldn't come as a shock to him.

Feeling completely elated, Rose left for work.

Her morning went painfully slowly, and unfortunately the invoicing system decided to cark it at about 10am, meaning she had to stay until I.T. support arrived to fix it. She wasn't able to leave until 4pm and still had the banking to do. She started to feel quite anxious about seeing Sherlock. At least Sherlock's visiting parents would most likely be gone by the end of the day. She really didn't want to cope with the awkwardness that would surround Sherlock having to introduce her to them. She was just about to enter the Westminster tube station when she spied a familiar face at the bottom of the stairs.

 _It's that guy!_ Rose swiftly stepped backwards onto the pavement.  _Sherlock's not going to believe I spotted him taking the tube again, so I'll have to get photos._  Pretending to text, Rose tapped at her phone until Lord Moran, Peer of the Realm himself appeared at the top of the stairs. She put the phone to her ear, and pressed the shutter half a dozen times as he walked past and hoped she'd captured him at least once.

Rose's heart beat furiously as the Minister for Overseas Development continued along the street and out of sight. She breathed a sigh of relief that he hadn't caught her in the act. Trawling back through her photo gallery she decided all six photos were reasonable, so she sent the whole batch to Sherlock.

Rose giggled to herself.  _That was fun! Wow, I wonder what it's like having a job like this all the time._  She hoped she'd somehow helped Sherlock and couldn't wait to see him to find out.

It was just after 5pm when Rose finally finished her errand and made it to 221 Baker Street. Nervously she tried the key Sherlock had left for her and was quietly astounded that it actually unlocked the door to the street. She tried tip-toeing up the stairs, but found one of the steps to be especially creaky.

She hoped Sherlock wouldn't be upset about her not wanting his money. Would he think it awkward? Would he suspect she wanted something more out of their 'relationship'? Rose didn't want to dwell on it any longer, but she didn't know what she'd do if she were rejected by Sherlock outright.

Striding into the living room, Rose was taken aback by the presence of a tall well-dressed man standing between the sofa and the coffee table, staring at Sherlock's case montage on the wall above the sofa.

"Oh," she said hesitantly as he turned to face her. "Is … Sherlock ... here?"

The man smiled politely at her, although his eyes told a different story. "Sherlock?" he repeated. "I daresay he's chasing a lead, or his tail. Sometimes it's difficult to distinguish between the two."

Rose frowned, not really knowing if this man was joking and whether she should laugh out of politeness or...

Then realisation hit as she recognised his voice. The brother. Mycroft Holmes. She suddenly desired to put a hundred miles between herself and the man Sherlock described as "the most dangerous man you'll ever meet."

"I...er...well, if you could just tell him Rose called by...or, actually, don't worry. I can just text him. Thanks," she gushed, and made to turn and bolt.

"Rose," Mycroft repeated, and Rose had the distinct impression that he wasn't calling her, but merely repeating her name in an effort to remember it.

"It's fine. I'll just send him a text," she repeated unconvincingly.

Mycroft Holmes meanwhile had retrieved a brown notebook out of his jacket pocket. Casually opening it to a seemingly random page, he recited, "Rosemarie Sulford, aged 27, of 101/22 Leinster Gardens, Bayswater. Psychology major, call centre volunteer, cloak room attendant at the Rendezvous and a clerk at Roches Home Entertainment." He looked up at Rose's startled face. "At least that's the official biography. The unofficial one is far more entertaining."

Rose's mouth had gone dry and she gaped in horror at Sherlock's brother's recitation, and the snide grin that accompanied it.

"My brother has a tendency to surround himself with the most wretched examples of society, Ms Sulford. It gives him a certain..." He grimaced as he slowly stepped toward Rose. "...sense of superiority. Oh, he doesn't really need - now what does he call them - his homeless network, any more than he requires the services of a sex worker."

Blood had drained from Rose's face, yet she remained rooted to the spot and unable to either flee or voice an opinion. Mycroft Holmes' grey eyes bore into her and she was convinced he could see right into her soul.

Mycroft put his notebook back into his jacket and continued to speak in his calm, polite manner as he fished another item from his pocket along with a pen. "You will no longer make contact with Sherlock Holmes," he began, his voice steady and soft as he opened what Rose guessed to be a chequebook. "You will be generously compensated of course," he continued, rapidly scrawling with his pen across the paper. As he tore the cheque from the stub he made eye contact with Rose as he held it out to her. "Don't bother speaking. I'm not interested in your emotional response. Just take the cheque and leave. Any attempt at contacting my brother will result in everyone you have ever known finding out your true profession, and that includes your parents, Liam and Sandra Sulford of Southwell. Scotland Yard will be informed that you've been trying to blackmail their resurrected hero through sexual entrapment. And then there's also the Security Service, and what they could possibly find in your flat. Good day, Ms Sulford."

Rose blinked before forcing a shaky hand to accept Mycroft's cheque and she turned and retreated rapidly down the stairs before her breath had returned to her. Her mind was still abuzz with the words that he had so calmly spoken. She felt confused at the information he had on her and the number of threats he had made against her. _The most dangerous man you could ever meet._  Who was she to Sherlock? Nothing, really. So why all the fuss?

She practically flew out of the door to the street and stood for a few seconds gulping in the fresh air and feeling rather faint. She willed her legs to get moving again, still intent on putting miles between herself and Sherlock's brother as she entered the Baker Street tube station.

Once she felt relatively safe seated in a carriage bound for God's knows where, she braved a glance at the cheque.

£10,000.

She'd just been paid ten thousand pounds to stay away from Sherlock Holmes.


	20. I'm Sorry, Brother Dear

 

Rose hugged her knees, bowing her head and only half listening to the constant droning beside her. She held aloft the joint which was eventually plucked from her hand.

After a brief pause, the droning began again as Billy had another amazing idea. "An entire 'ouse full of those coloured plastic balls. I'm not talking 'bout the inflatable kiddy 'ouses. A real 'ouse. For adults. An' you 'ave ta enter through the chimney 'coz the doors would be all bolted shut."

"Billy," Rose said exasperatedly. She lifted her head and peered through narrow eyes at her friend sitting across from her. "That's the dumbest idea so far."

Billy looked extremely miffed as he handed the joint back to Rose. All of his ideas for how Rose should spend the £10,000 cheque had been shot down. He had told her there were at least one hundred ways she could spend the money. He was currently on idea number five.

"I told you I wanted to burn it," she murmured.

She continued to toke and hug her knees, watching in amusement as Billy's face contorted composing his next idea.

"But there's so many other things to do with it. Charities," he said pointedly. "The Bill Wiggins Rehabilitation Centre for instance."

Rose laughed and passed the joint back to Billy. "Okay, not that anyone would consider what you offer by way of charity is really rehab. More like,  _Get high on whatever you like, while Billy "The Wigg" Wiggins watches you and your stuff_."

"It's a good service," Billy said defensively as he held his latest toke. "Besides, you've already decided you ain't gonna see the bloke, so why not spend the money?"

Rose's face grew dark as she lamented her decision to never see Sherlock Holmes again. "I'm not going to see _the bloke_  because his evil older brother threatened me," she replied. "It's not because he paid me off. I don't want a penny of that bastard's money. It's what he threatened me with."

She waved her hand at Billy, signalling she'd had enough when he offered her the last toke.

Rising from his chair, Billy said, "I don't see no difference." He looked idly around for an ashtray.

"It's outside," Rose responded before he asked. She stood up as well, and busied herself grabbing her things as she explained, "One is a threat, the other is a bribe."

"Oh," commented Billy as he opened the door to the balcony. He hastened outside, dropped the roach into the ashtray before re-entering the room. "So you're heeding the threat," he summarised, "but discarding the bribe."

"Exactly," Rose said, managing a smile. She knew Billy could be pretty sharp when he set his mind to it. Didn't happen very often, but she'd had some quite engaging and lively conversations with him over the years.

"'Right, Rosie?" he asked, patting his pockets.

Rose found this comical as he very rarely carried personal items such as a wallet and keys. A pocket knife and a packet of jelly beans were his usual possessions - the former being a necessary accessory for slicing the latter into thin circles. Billy thought jelly beans were awesome when consumed as tiny discs.

"I've got everything," Rose said sighing. She felt the need to be in the company of others tonight. The empty flat would only serve to remind her once again, that Sherlock Holmes wasn't in her life.

"Oh. Can I borrow a fiver?" Billy asked.

"Sorry, Billy. I don't have any change."

He frowned at Rose and pointed to the envelope on the table. "You've got eight 'undred quid right there on the table."

"It's not mine. I have to return it... I'm going to return it."

She picked up the envelope containing the £800 Sherlock had paid her, but left the cheque where it stood, half folded, and standing upright on the coffee table.

"I'll get some cash out at the machine," she told Billy as they exited her flat.

* * *

Sherlock leant his head back and exhaled his cigarette smoke into the air.

"Put that out, and feet _off_  the coffee table," his brother said sternly as he swept into the room. "There is no smoking in British Government offices."

"Oh, bring back the 90s," Sherlock said idly. "And this office barely exists on paper anyway. Who would know? May I go now?" he asked in a petulant tone as he sat up and stubbed out his cigarette into his makeshift ashtray - a small bowl he had stolen earlier from a kitchenette he found at the end of the corridor. "Surely an enormous bomb disguised as a train carriage speaks for itself. The Security Services hardly need me to explain how incredibly dangerous it is to carelessly leave such a weapon underneath the Palace of Westminster."

"Paper trail, Sherlock," Mycroft replied blandly. He quirked an eyebrow as he continued. "And how you arrived at the location of the bomb and your subsequent identification of the Minister for Overseas Development as being the responsible party need to be documented."

"Oh. Dull," Sherlock sighed. "And if you were listening at all to my debriefing session you would've noticed that the chicken came before the egg."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning, brother dear, that Lord Moran drew my attention first. He was an enormous rat," Sherlock said with mock enthusiasm."And he had just come out of his hidey hole. I merely located his hole and therefore the bomb."

"Rat, Sherlock? I thought he was a chicken only a moment ago?" came Mycroft's snide response.

Sherlock stood up and rebuttoned his jacket. "Look, all this paperwork is stupidly superfluous. Just get them to make a rubber stamp that reads  _Sherlock Holmes Solved It, again_ , and be done with."

"Most amusing, Sherlock. But yes, in answer to your original question, you may go now. We have everything we need from you. There's a car waiting for you downstairs. MI5 is, once again, fully appreciative of your efforts."

"Good," Sherlock said smugly, grabbing at his coat from its position on the arm of the couch draping it over his arm. "I shall forward on my expenses to her Majesty."

Mycroft raised an eyebrow in amusement. "Speaking of expenses, Sherlock," he began.

Sherlock looked up in mild interest, while he absentmindedly patted his pockets for lost items.

"I fear your current obsession is threatening to even out do your previous indulgences. I know Her Majesty may have bankrolled your little expedition around Europe, but at the rate of your current expenditure that little nest egg will dwindle away to nothing. Let me just say that I've taken care of that issue for you."

"Taken care of... what  _obsession_?" Sherlock asked, perplexed.

Mycroft set his mouth in a disapproving frown as he tilted his head slightly. "As with the cocaine habit you developed in Montague Street, the first step is to admit you even have a problem."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows and then pondered dramatically. "Ah... nope. Still haven't the faintest idea what you're talking about. And for me, that is rare."

"It's not rare that I outsmart you, Sherlock. No, all I have done is alleviated this particular expense. It's not like you can't-"

"Excuse me, Mister Holmes," a male voice called from the corridor.

Both Holmes men turned toward the intruder, who appeared to be addressing Mycroft.

"It's just that they brought Lord Moran in, sir, and Downing Street want you to … ah... deal with it personally," the man advised him.

Mycroft nodded, which served as both a signal of his understanding and a dismissal of the young man. As he made to follow the staffer into the corridor, he turned back to Sherlock and said, "The matinee session is at 2:30pm tomorrow. Don't be late."

Sherlock scoffed, picking up his mobile from a table and dropping it into his pocket. "I have no intention of seeing Les Mis with our parents, Mycroft. That was your stupid idea. You can suffer alone."

Mycroft fixed his brother with a stern look, one he was used to giving repeatedly over the years. "It was Mummy's idea for us  _as a family_  to celebrate your returning to the land of the living."

"Why? By forcing me to die of boredom in a pointless musical theatre production?"

Mycroft appeared immune to Sherlock's churlish comments. "I'll ring you, Sherlock," Mycroft called back as he strode majestically out of the room.

Sherlock made his way to the underground carpark of Thames House. As promised, a vehicle and driver were waiting for him. As he was driven the fifteen or so minutes back to Baker Street, Sherlock pondered Mycroft's words.

_Striving to control both the country and my life simultaneously. It's a wonder he doesn't blow his diet more often._

_What did he do? Taken care of what expense?_

Sherlock tried to determine just what he had blown huge sums of money on, for Mycroft to liken it to his previous substance abuse problem.

_Oh._

_Obvious._

_Rose._

Of course Mycroft had found out about Rose. Why wouldn't he have?

Sherlock retrieved his phone from his pocket. Should he just phone her? He leant his arm on the side of the car door, tapping the phone thoughtfully to his lips. Of course he would.

When Rose didn't answer, Sherlock hung up on her answering service message. He bid the driver to change destination: to Bayswater then, Leinster Gardens.

When Sherlock arrived, he knocked then counted to six, which felt like an eternity. He strained to listen to any noises coming from within.  _Right. I've waited the obligatory amount of time before using my own key. Or should I have used my key without knocking? That convention was not made clear._

Noticing the shiny new lock at about he same time Sherlock attempted to enter his key, he had a sinking feeling.

_She's changed the locks. She's not answering her phone. Mycroft! What have you done!_

Sherlock tutted and huffed a breath in frustration.  _She's either scared, annoyed or extremely pissed off_. Sherlock assumed Mycroft had done his little kidnapping thing again, and whisked Rose away in a government vehicle to an unknown destination and preceded to recite her life story back to her, while offering her large sums of money to spy on Sherlock. Well, perhaps not  _spy_ exactly. So he was alleviating Sherlock's expense by paying for Rose on his behalf? That had all kinds of perverse and dysfunctional family connotations.

Thinking these were extraordinary circumstances, Sherlock decided to pick the lock once more, although he really didn't think Rose was home. Entering the flat, Sherlock was disappointed to find that he was correct. He sniffed the air.  _So, she'd been toking inside the flat. Obviously upset enough to disregard her tenancy agreement._

Sherlock spied the sole object resting on the coffee table and scooped it up. His eyes widened minutely at the five figure sum made out to  _Rosemarie Sulford_ from the account of some _cryptic-sounding-untraceable-to-Mycroft_  company.

_Bloody Mycroft. For what services is he paying Rose exactly? Have sex with my little brother and report back? That's just so..._

Sherlock paused as another memory surfaced.

 _You forgot Psychology Graduate_ , Rose had said.

_Ah._

_So he's hired me a therapist of sorts, someone I was already seeing so I wouldn't be suspicious. He's trying to prevent me having a severe meltdown and ending up wasted on the couch again. So thoughtful of him to be concerned about my mental health._

Sherlock quickly replaced the cheque onto the coffee table, as if the disdain his older brother held for him was going to seep into his pores by osmosis from the cheque itself. It was just like Mycroft to surreptitiously try to keep Sherlock on the straight and narrow as he had done years ago - paying off drug dealers, encouraging the Met, namely one D.I. Lestrade (D.C. Lestrade at the time) to distract him with cases, and bribing the British Museum to not press charges (it was _one_ artefact, just that  _one time_ ).

Since Sherlock had declined therapy with the MI6-approved therapist upon his return from his missions abroad much to Mycroft's disapproval, he concluded that his older brother had somehow pressed his desires for a therapist onto Rose, traumatising her in the process.

"I don't need someone probing into my head," Sherlock had retorted while he was receiving the full barber treatment upon his return from Serbia.

"Might do you the world of good, Sherlock," Mycroft had remarked in a semi-encouraging tone. "Who knows what all these cloak and dagger activities will play upon your psyche. And just what did you get up to in the Ukraine?" he had muttered, while perusing Sherlock's file. "You  _have_ been busy, haven't you?...Quite the busy little bee," and he chuckled, which concluded the end of Mycroft's insistence that Sherlock receive some sort of post-traumatic therapy.

Or so Sherlock thought.

With a weary sigh, he opened the door to the balcony, just making doubly sure that Rose wasn't outside, continuing  _her_  personal therapy session in the company of her weed. There was no Rose, but the evidence of her session lay in the ashtray as expected. Sherlock examined it, noting the neat roll of paper around the even neater roach.

 _So she had company_ , Sherlock deduced. _And not just any company - that guy who rolls joints for her, whose name escapes me._

Sherlock re-entered the flat determined to find Rose and set her straight regarding Mycroft and his little incentives. His mind returned to John, and Mycroft's first meeting with the good doctor.

_Did he offer you money to spy on me? … Did you take it? … Pity, we could've split the fee. Think it through next time._

He was going to have a laugh about this with Rose. Of this he was sure.

* * *

Returning to Baker Street, Sherlock was surprised to find John Watson about to use his spare key to enter 221.

"John," Sherlock said cautiously as he finished paying the cabbie.

"Ah...Sherlock," John replied nervously. "I...er...brought dinner." And he held up a bag of takeaway food that Sherlock could clearly see had originated from the restaurant around the corner. "Got your favourite," John added in a rushed voice. "Did they keep you at MI5 all this time?"

"Just about," Sherlock replied vaguely.

Sherlock was touched - although he'd never admit it - that his old friend had decided to spend an evening with him, despite the cruel ( _cruel, it wasn't cruel - funny maybe_ ) trick he'd pulled on the ex-army captain in the train carriage before the Met's Counter Terrorism Command team and Mycroft's Security Service pals had swooped in to take control of the situation.

John was allowed to discreetly leave and return home, while Sherlock was called into the MI5 headquarters for a debriefing session.

Sherlock and John headed upstairs, just like old times, to share dinner. They talked, hesitatingly at first, complete with awkward silences, about Sherlock's time away. Sherlock shared his missions in general terms, highlighting brilliant deductions about discovering the whereabouts of members of Moriarty's network, and deliberating skipping specific details of …

… incidents he didn't want to think about too deeply.

They watched a late news broadcast of a prominent member of Parliament being brought in "to assist police with their enquiries" for a "plot to derail parliamentary proceedings." Both Sherlock and John laughed at the pun, with Sherlock switching off the telly at the announcement that the tube service in Central London would be affected for a few hours that night.

John left at approximately midnight, leaving Sherlock sitting in front of the fire, pondering the evening's proceedings and more importantly his reconciliation with his former flatmate. He debated calling Rose again, opting to compose an innocent text to send her, along the lines of "Thank you for sending the photos. You helped stop a terrorist from blowing up Parliament. That may or may not have been a good thing. I'll see you tomorrow." He paused for a moment, deleted the last part and replaced it with, "Will I see you tomorrow?" He'd leave it up to her, and hoped her reply would be in the positive.

Sherlock had a relatively fitful sleep; his mental state only marginally brighter with the knowledge that he was no longer in John's bad books. He woke agonisingly early again though, with the weak wintery dawn still an hour or so away.

There was no reply from Rose, which was to be expected. He'd sent the text fairly late last night and it was far too early for her to be awake yet. His morning was uneventful. Mrs Hudson bustled about making noises about cooking him breakfast. John phoned to say he was inundated with emails and phone calls from the press asking for an interview with Sherlock since the man himself was ignoring all messages and calls made directly to him. Sherlock dismissed him with a curt reply. His whole downfall, death, and subsequent redemption were all played out in the press. He didn't feel the need to continue living his life in the limelight for merely existing.

"People want to know what it was all for - the fake suicide, the hiding out for two years. You did have a lot of sympathisers and supporters you know," John told him in a second phone call. "And speaking of supporters, ah... Molly and Greg were wondering if we were going to do something... you know... to celebrate your official return?"

When John encountered silence at the end of the phone line, he added, sighing, "Look, Sherlock. Just get this over and done with, eh? Your return. The press. The celebration. Everyone will forget sooner or later and you can go back to being your usual sociable self."

The world's only Consulting Detective finally muttered his acquiescence and let John organise a "drinks thing" at Baker Street that afternoon, followed by an interview with the media on the street outside 221.

"Molly's bringing someone," John advised Sherlock when he'd entered the flat after lunch. "She thought it'd be a good opportunity for us all to meet her new fella."

Sherlock didn't comment. He was staring distractedly at the newspaper as he stood beside the living room table, but he was not reading it. He had finally received a text message from Rose. "You're welcome," it said, and nothing else. What did that even mean? A pang of disappointment sat within him, the explanation of which eluded him for the time being.

Finally John's words filtered into his brain. "A what?" he asked, as John busied himself tidying up the flat.

"Fella," John replied. "Fiancé. Must be serious then," he added with a mischievous grin.

 _Oh_ , thought Sherlock, returning his gaze to the newspaper. _The man behind the engagement ring. How wonderful. John's getting married; Molly's getting married. We should be expecting a happy announcement from Mrs Hudson and Mr Chatterjee by tea time._

 _Why can't I bring a … someone_ , he thought bitterly. He glanced at his phone one more time. Should he send her another message?  _'Come round for drinks. We're having a Welcome Back Sherlock thing. I know, you've already welcomed me back by having sex with me and shedding a few tears. But it's high time you met the gang...'_

Sherlock halted his thought process before the sentiment he could feel churning inside him threatened to suffocate him. He had spent his third night back in London not in Rose's company. And he missed her. Why was that? Was she his one crutch for being back in London, his own city, and having to face each day without all of the relationships he had grown accustomed to over the years?

For the previous two nights, he had someone to share his thoughts with, and last night, he'd had John back. But it wasn't the same, Sherlock knew that. John had listened, sympathised even, and did, ever so slightly, marvel at Sherlock's brilliance. But it was all tainted, really - the fake suicide, the two years absence. And a couple of times during the evening, John had quickly glanced at his watch. He had somewhere else he needed to be.

Home.

Because 221B Baker Street was no longer the home of one Doctor John H. Watson.

"You 'right, Sherlock?" John asked, breaking into the detective's thoughts. "You've been staring at that same article for ages." John had glanced at him, but continued his self-appointed task of rinsing out champagne glasses for the celebratory bottles of bubbly he and Mary had brought 'round.

Sherlock cleared his throat. "It's just odd," he quickly lied, turning the page, "reading British news. It's all so..." he fluttered his hand into the air as he spoke, "overly dramatic and alarming."

"Yep," John agreed. "And you were front page for a time."

"Mmm," Sherlock replied disinterestedly.

He folded up the newspaper and left his position by the table to wander over to the window overlooking the street. He drew the curtain aside and peered down.

"The vultures are gathering," he murmured.

"Hmm, what's that?" John asked from the kitchen.

"Only newspaper photographers," Sherlock shot back. "No network crews." He tilted his head slightly and he continued to scan the small crowd on the pavement. "Several bachelors," he murmured as John joined him by the window. "Two married, oh, a couple from rival newspapers are having an affair with each other it seems."

John chuckled as he left Sherlock alone again. "You've still got it then."

"Never lost it, John." He remained by the window for several more minutes, determining the nationalities of all of the photographers and reporters, their shoe sizes and which ones were lactose intolerant. "Ah," he exclaimed eventually. "Lestrade's arrived. Looks like he's split up with his wife permanently this time."

John huffed a laugh. "Well, he has actually. Over a year ago. But why do you say that?"

"He's wearing yesterday's shirt. It's far too creased for one day's activity, and he obviously slept in it."

John cleared a place on the living room table for the champagne glasses. Shortly they were joined by Mrs Hudson and Mary who had been downstairs preparing nibbles. John popped the cork on the champagne and began pouring glasses as Scotland Yard's finest arrived.

Sherlock's previous sombre mood was rapidly waning in the company of familiar faces. As he retold the mystery of the blonde drug smuggler who had infiltrated a sect of Buddhist warrior monks, his mood had picked up enormously, and he chuckled when Lestrade told John that he thought he was going to have to arrest him for being a public menace due to the moustache he had been growing.

As the champagne flowed, Sherlock rose out of his seat between Mary and Mrs Hudson to open another bottle.

"It's almost time," John told him quietly, tilting his head toward the window.

Disrupted by his ringing phone, Sherlock saw that as an opportunity to grab his jacket from the bedroom and insult his brother at the same time.

"I  _have_  reserved you a seat, Sherlock," Mycroft spoke in a low voice.

Sherlock drew on his jacket over one arm as he swapped the phone into his other hand. He tutted in mock chastisement. "Making phone calls from within the theatre, Mycroft? That's one of those rule thingies isn't it?"

"Look, I'll swap with you. Take my place now, and I'll attend Uncle Rudy's 70th on our behalf."

"Les Mis is your little thing, Mycroft. You organised it," Sherlock replied smugly. He swapped arms again, pulling on the rest of his jacket.

"Sherlock, please - I beg of you. You can take over at the interval," Mycroft said urgently as the strains of the triumphant Les Miserables song  _Do You Hear the People Sing_  swelled around him.

"Oh, I'm sorry, brother dear. But you made a promise," Sherlock said as he approached his full-length mirror. He admired the deep burgundy shirt he hadn't worn in years as he buttoned up his jacket. "Nothing I can do to help you," he added.

"You don't understand the pain of it, the horror!"

Sherlock smiled to himself as he hung up on his panic-stricken brother. He didn't have time for the British Government's resident drama queen. He was celebrating being back with his friends. It was time for more champagne.

John approached Sherlock as he re-entered the kitchen. "Come on," he said encouragingly. "You'll have to go down. They'll want the story."

"In a minute," Sherlock replied, brushing past John.

He had a couple more glasses of champagne to pour if Molly and her  _significant other_  were on their way. He may even partake in a glass himself.

The day was turning out to be mildly acceptable. Now if only Rose was there, too.

* * *

Rose leant on the counter of the cloakroom, easing her feet out of her heels hidden from both club patrons and staff alike. She was completely exhausted. She'd stayed over at Billy's friend Jessica's house the night before, drank way too much of some cider concoction, then returned home in the early hours of the morning to shower and change. These days she rarely drank to excess, but this time she thought sinking into a hazy oblivion was fully warranted.

She had been rostered on the early shift, opening up the entertainment store again. Throughout the day, Gus, the man she shared duties with, phoned to say he couldn't make it in that afternoon, so she was left with closing the store as well. She made another quick trip home after work to change, pop the cheque into a frypan, burn it, wash the pan, then fry an omelette for dinner. And for good measure, she ceremoniously tipped the ashy remains into the toilet and flushed them away, thinking evil thoughts about Mycroft Holmes the entire time. She hoped there was some kind of universal karma that would unleash its fury onto the older Holmes as a consequence.

She'd hurriedly changed and grabbed a cab to the Rendezvous strip club on Old Street in the pub precinct of Shoreditch, where she had worked as a cloakroom attendant for the past two years. She wouldn't normally indulge in calling a taxi, but she was already running late and catching the tube to East London would make her arrive even later.

The club usually opened from lunchtime onwards, and Rose's shift was to commence at 5pm. She had called ahead to advise them that she wouldn't be there until after six since she would still be closing the entertainment store. It was a good thing she was one of the longer term employees at the club - in this industry, two years in one venue was indeed, a long stint - because 5pm was in the middle of happy hour, and definitely a busy time. If it were anyone else, the club owner, Gary, would've read them the riot act.

Rose was working a double shift and wouldn't finish until midnight. Gary was very fond of Rose. As "an old bird" the dancers often sought her out for advice. Gary knew this was one way to keep his crew happy - have them tell their tales of woe to someone with a level-head. Rose didn't realise that what she was providing during her tea breaks for young, sometimes distraught dancers offloading their troubles onto her constituted as a free counselling service, until one of the younger dancers remarked how therapeutic talking to Rose was. This had given Rose the idea of volunteering at a crisis centre.

The Rendezvous strip club had recently undergone extensive renovations. The 80s décor was long gone, replaced by exposed brick walls and oak floorboards which ran the length of the club. The bar itself was carved especially to fit the length of one entire wall, replacing the wood and laminate panelled combination that was formerly centred within the club.

In her tiny area which served as a cloakroom, a small cupboard really, Rose didn't generally get to see the rest of activities in the club. The cloakroom was stationed off to one side of the entranceway. It was situated within a small lobby area, with double doors that separated it from the main room. Now and again, when it was quiet, she'd stand in the doorway and watch the girls performing their choreography. She found what they did particularly skillful and impressive. There was definitely an art to it, and even though she herself had disrobed a few hundred times in front of men for the purposes of arousing them, she felt like an uncoordinated git compared to these young things. Rose laughed to herself that she'd probably fall off the stage removing her underwear if she had a go.

Rose knew each and every one of them, some more than others, depending on the length and depth of conversations she'd have with them. There were 60 dancers in all and they'd each work three shifts per day, of four hours each. Before each dance, they'd walk around with a jug, collecting the one pound 'payment' from each and every patron. With free entry, it was a requirement to pay every dancer before they took to the stage. A few of the more experienced girls would also conduct private lap dance sessions at a price of ten pounds before 5pm, or 15 pounds afterwards.

Rose did her calculations. Working five or six nights per week, some of these girls were pulling a higher wage than she was earning at the store. But her wage as a cloakroom attendant on an evening shift over weekends wasn't too bad either. There was no way she'd ever consider stripping as a profession. Those days were long behind her. Besides, at 27, she'd definitely be getting past her prime in comparison to the average age of the girls in the club.

Tonight she didn't feel like talking to anyone. She had her own tales of woe - her own 'boyfriend' troubles. And she was quite sure none of the girls there had ever had a boyfriend whose brother had documented their entire history then bribed them £10,000 to stay away from their sibling. Of this, she was in a unique position.

"I really like this joint," Brianna, a relatively new dancer volunteered, interrupting Rose's thoughts. "At the Grange, you have-ta be good at huss-lin' and the stage shows are non-existent."

Rose smiled in sympathy. She couldn't escape it seemed. Brianna had a half hour break and wore a coat over her dressing gown, obviously on her way outside for a smoke.

"The girls are really competitive," Brianna continued, undeterred by Rose's non-response. "There's no cameraderie. I didn't even make the house fee most nights."

It was going to be a long night.

* * *

Sherlock's determined stride had him from the kerb, where he had alighted the cab, and across to the staircase that lead up to Rose's flat. He concluded that Rose should have finished work by now, and he was desperately hoping to see her having successfully escaped dinner with his parents.

They had cornered him back at Baker Street in the early evening. Mycroft had them dropped off after the theatre, so they could spend more quality time with their youngest son, before they went out to dinner with Frank and Shirley, whoever they were. Not wanting to attend the performance of Les Miserables also meant that Sherlock had absolutely no interest in the libretto, the costuming, staging and which understudy had replaced which lead. His mother, on the other hand, proceeded to fill him in on all this, and more.

He often wondered what life would have been like as an orphan.

Knocking once more on Rose's door, Sherlock closed his eyes and counted to five. No answer. He hastily retrieved his lock picking kit and surreptitiously made his way inside as he had done the day before. Again, that lead weight sat within at the thought of an absent Rose. There was no fresh marijuana smoke, only the faint stale air of her toking yesterday.

A newer, more acrid smokey haze hung closer to the kitchen however, and on further investigation Sherlock concluded that Rose had been home and burnt herself an omelette.

But where she could be now, he had no idea. He racked his Mind Palace for snatches of conversations he may have been only half listening to. There was something. Something about needing "two jobs actually" because volunteering at the crisis centre brought no remuneration. What two jobs? One was the entertainment store. The other was...?

_Did she say?_

Sherlock couldn't recall, and he hit upon the idea to delve into her personal papers that he had filed away neatly into one of the kitchen cupboards during his organising frenzy the evening before last. He came across two likely candidates: one was for office duties at a tyre fitting company, although the last payslip from that company was quite old; the other was from the Rendezvous Strip Club in Shoreditch. Now that payslip was dated two weeks ago.

 _East London then_ , Sherlock thought ruefully.

As he left her flat and hailed another cab, he tried to analyse what it was that sat uneasily within him at the new knowledge that Rose was working in a strip club. A tasteful strip club. One of the better ones in London, Sherlock thought, but still, that horrible feeling remained. She said she didn't do that any more, and in hindsight, she was probably specifically referring to jumping out of cakes, not stripping in general.

He didn't like it.

He hated the idea.

There. Now he brought the feeling to the forefront of his mind. He had assumed Rose had reserved herself solely for him. That she could be garnering lascivious looks, wolf-whistles and … payment, from other men now sickened him. It hadn't bothered him two years ago when she was actually having sex with others, so why this now?

With a heavy heart he stared out of the taxi window, deeply conflicted for the remainder of the 20 minute journey to Shoreditch.

* * *

The crowd had picked up considerably; the hanger space on one side was nearing capacity. By midnight, when Rose's shift ended and the owner's niece usually took over, both sides would be full. She'd just finished hanging the coat of the last gentleman in a party of six - football fans, out on the town after watching a game on the telly of one of the pubs down the road - when the next patron presented himself. And he hadn't even bothered taking off his coat.

Still, his broad smile and slate-coloured eyes which regarded her with warmth and affection at first startled Rose, before she promptly burst into tears.

 


	21. The Lie of Leinster Gardens

 

 _His smile_  - that's what did it. That's what made Rose break down: the expression of a man pleased to finally catch up with someone who meant something to him.

Admittedly, she had been out of his life for a mere 24 hours, but he had found her, and he was very happy to see her. At least that's what Rose had interpreted as the meaning behind his smile. When she saw Sherlock's bright expression falter in confusion over her reaction, she managed to choke back her tears. Rose swiftly exited her little cupboard via a side door and called out to J'aime - a tiny transgender bottle blonde who worked the door to the main room - to watch the cloakroom for her. Then she grabbed a still stunned Sherlock by his coat sleeve and pulled him through the front doors and into the street. She turned to face him and gave him a weak, tear-stained smile.

"Are you all right?" he asked anxiously.

Rose quietly nodded, but a fresh tear betrayed her and blazed a trail down her cheek before she wiped it away.

"Let's go back here," she managed to say, beckoning Sherlock around the corner and into the privacy of a small laneway.

"God, Rose, you're shivering," Sherlock remarked, noting Rose's "uniform" consisting of a white, sleeveless shirt, small black tie and short black skirt with stockings. It was the same attire that the bar staff at the club wore - although the male staff wore black trousers instead of skirts and stockings - but definitely not suitable for being outside in the crisp night air of London's early winter. Sherlock shed his coat and wrapped it around her shoulders - the kind gesture eliciting another solitary tear from Rose.

"Sherlock," she managed to gasp.

Sherlock was kind of relieved that she was upset in a sad way, and not in an angry way, and more specifically, not angry with him. He was also comforted by the fact that he hadn't found Rose on stage, half-naked, gyrating in front of a room full of leering, half-cut men. He really didn't know what he would have done had he been confronted by that scene.

Putting that notion out of his mind for the moment (for it could still be a possibility - perhaps it was her turn in the cloakroom tonight?), he  _could_ possibly cheer her up. Not really  _his area_  though, but he could try. He'd observed others doing this and it couldn't be that hard could it? He  _was_  something of a genius after all.

He rubbed her arms through his coat and said softly without preamble, "You're upset. Was it my brother?"

Rose nodded again, her fresh tears assuming the role as spokesperson.  _Yes_  she was upset,  _yes_ , she was frightened but she was relieved that Sherlock knew immediately who had caused her to be so. She felt like a small child being comforted about the monster in the closet.

Sherlock managed a sympathetic smile, which grew until he huffed a small laugh and then chuckled. Rose gave him a puzzled look.

"What?" she asked.

"My brother," he said, straightening up and releasing his hold on Rose's arms. "He really needs a hobby. Well," he added, furrowing his brow in thought. "Perhaps a more conventional hobby."

He noted Rose's still distraught expression and wondered how on earth anyone could take that over-stuffed, imperial whale seriously. John Watson was unimpressed by Mycroft's unconventional approach the first time he had been summoned, and the ex-army captain quickly saw through all the histrionics in time.

"Sherlock," Rose struggled to say. She still didn't know how he could act so indifferent. "He... he..."

"I know, Rose," Sherlock gently interrupted her. "A touch of the dramatics. Just ignore him. I do." He gave Rose a broad smile again, which she found odd, considering the circumstances.

"H-how can I ignore him? He knew all these things about me-"

Sherlock could see that Rose wouldn't let this go so readily. He found her reaction both frustrating and intriguing. Did ordinary people really fear that man? Perhaps that's why he was so indispensable within the bowels of the British Government. It's a pity the British Government hadn't seen how the pompous arse, at the age of 17, had screamed like a girl, having found the innards of a rabbit underneath the bedclothes before tucking in one night. Sherlock had found the deceased bunny on the grounds of their acreage after it had probably passed away as a result of fatal wounds inflicted by his pet dog, Redbeard. Sherlock was disappointed that Mycroft hadn't noticed that his younger brother had placed the organs in their correct anatomical positions had they still been confined within the body of aforementioned small mammal, before he had screamed the house down.

Sherlock thought that he ought to relay some of these stories to Rose, just to make her feel better.

"Mmm, like I said, he needs a hobby. He loves being theatrical, despite his hatred of musical theatre. But who doesn't?" When Rose continued to look upset, Sherlock added, "Look Rose, you probably should know that he tried the same thing on John."

"He did?"

Sherlock paused for a moment, deep in thought. Mycroft hadn't offered money to John Watson to have _sex_ with Sherlock, thank goodness, so in that respect it was a slightly different encounter. He cleared his throat and quickly added, "More or less. Anyway, just ignore him and he'll go away and find a small country to invade or something."

Rose was still taken aback by Sherlock's nonchalance. "You said he was the most dangerous man I could ever meet."

"We-ell," Sherlock said thoughtfully. "He's only considered dangerous to rogue governments or chocolate cupcakes. And since you're neither, then you don't have anything to worry about. Okay?" He tried his charming smile again hoping his little joke would entice a laugh from Rose and end this frankly ridiculous episode.

Rose didn't understand how Sherlock could appear so casual about his brother's threats and then she remembered him snogging her while Mycroft was on the phone. Sherlock definitely possessed a defiant attitude toward his older sibling. But this wasn't about _his_ defiance, it was about  _her_ heeding a very real threat.

"I wasn't going to see you again," she informed him.

"I noticed," he said simply, recalling the new lock on the door to her flat. His smile faded.  _I'm being punished for the sins of my brother,_  Sherlock thought, and then he had a moment of panic. What if Rose still refused to see him due to his overbearing brother? What would he do without Rose to... to... to what? Why did he need her so much? For sex?

_No. Of course not._

_For company._

_Definitely..._

…  _company._

He had to fix this.

"Rose. I'll talk to him, okay?" When her expression changed to one of hope, Sherlock breathed out deeply and ventured, "I... I still want to see you. If you'll let me." Then he internally winced. That sounded like a plea. Sherlock Holmes didn't plea for anything, did he?

Rose held her breath for a moment, her heart beginning to thunder at Sherlock's words and the earnest look he was giving her. Not wanting to blubber again, she slipped her arms around his neck and emotionally drew him in for a hug.

"Of course," she said hoarsely, clinging to him. "I still want to see you."

Sherlock's head reeled upon hearing Rose's admission. He slowly returned her embrace, relieved that he didn't need to negotiate any further. If she'd pushed back - if she'd said no - he would've turned on his heels and walked away. Sherlock Holmes definitely didn't beg.

Of this he was sure.

He was confused though. His mind was piecing together her previous statements, such as _You're so nice_ , and _I really like you,_  along with her latest declaration, _I still want to see you._  She'd always indicated she didn't find him as repulsive as some of her previous clientele. However, her 'want' to see him was ever so gently encouraged by that big fat cheque made out to her by his big fat brother. How much of her 'want' was her own emotional needs, versus her financial one?

As they drew back a little, Rose regarded Sherlock for a moment, searching his eyes, the cool grey irises not cold and arrogant, but glistening with hope. The corners of his mouth were turned down and the tiny crease in his brow hinted at his anxiety.  _Was he worried about me not seeing him again?_  Rose wondered. She felt a heady rush of emotion all over again and closed the gap between them, pressing her lips to his.

Rose felt Sherlock's arms tighten around her as he matched her tender kiss. His coat slid from around her shoulders due to her arms circling his neck, exposing the bare skin of her arms to the frigid air. But Rose only felt the warmth of Sherlock's embrace and the rapidly spreading heat of the mounting passion that intensified between them.

Sherlock hummed in response to Rose's warm mouth, moist and sweet. He felt her tremble as his grip tightened, molding her body against his. They were lost in the moment, forgetting they were in a laneway off one of the busiest nightclub streets in Shoreditch.

"Rose!" a voice called from the edge of the lane.

Rose broke their kiss with a gasp, and regarded J'aime sheepishly. "I'll just be a minute," Rose told the door attendant breathlessly, her cheeks flushed with desire.

Sherlock still had his arms wrapped around Rose but his attention was also on the interloper. He debated whether or not to release his grip on her, but reasoned that he was holding his coat against her back and therefore she was still receiving warmth from it even though it had fallen from her shoulders.

J'aime looked seriously put out that Rose had taken a break in order to snog with her boyfriend. The blonde pouted petulantly and then whined, "I can't check coats and open the doors at the same time!"

Rose sighed. "Then just manage the coats. The patrons can open the door themselves," she advised J'aime, wondering for all the world why supposed young adults couldn't figure things out for themselves.

"They're not allowed!" J'aime replied vehemently, punctuating her statement with a childish stomp from one of her impossibly high heels. She glared at Rose once more then disappeared back along the street.

"I've gotta go," Rose said to Sherlock. "It seems the clientele are not permitted to open the showroom door."

"I heard," Sherlock replied, his voice pitched low with a slight roughness to it. He had no intention of letting Rose go just yet.

He studied her face, the intensity of his gaze causing Rose to lose the composure she'd almost regained during the interruption. _I don't want to go yet_ , Sherlock thought.  _I can't go back to an empty flat again._ The case he'd been given in order to bring him back to London was solved. More or less. There was still the issue of John and the bonfire. Sherlock still wasn't entirely convinced that it was related to the terrorist plot. So in theory, he had nothing with which to occupy his mind and no company to distract him from turning to chemical stimulants. With the exception of Rose - his new addiction, or so his brother claimed.

And he'd missed Rose. His heart heaved at the thought and he wanted to shake his head to dismiss the rather ludicrous admission.

With a suddenness that took him by surprise as well, Sherlock crushed his lips against Rose's once more and pushed her back against the brick wall of the building in which the club resided. One hand had cupped the nape of her neck while the other impatiently pulled at her shirt, freeing it from her skirt waistband. As a result, his coat fell to the ground in a crumpled heap.

Rose's hands found Sherlock's dark locks, and she lost herself in the intensity of his kiss. His body pressed firmly again hers as they explored and tasted one another, both hearts now thudding in unison. She gasped as Sherlock's mouth roamed the smooth skin along her neck and his hand caressed her back, gliding around to her front and skimming her breasts.

"Sherlock," Rose panted. She pushed him away lightly, and when his mouth didn't cease, she pressed against his chest more firmly. "We can't do this here." But as his mouth grew hungrier Rose slipped her hands under Sherlock's jacket and pulled on his waistband, pressing her hips to Sherlock's causing him to moan impatiently. She guided his kisses back to her mouth where she too began an assault on him, intense and urgent.

His arms were no longer around her as one hand skimmed underneath her skirt trailing along the bare flesh above the top of her stocking. Rose could sense Sherlock fumbling on his waistband and fly with his other hand. She abruptly broke off their kiss and said breathlessly once more, "Not here, Sherlock."

* * *

"Stay away from my friends," Sherlock said in an even voice into his phone as he sat in the back of a cab on his way to Baker Street.

"Oh," Mycroft sighed wearily from the other end. "Which one?" he asked, his voice laced in amusement. "You have so many now. You can't be that far off having a complete set."

"You know which one, Mycroft. Stay away from her."

"Her? Oh. The  _paid companion_." Sherlock could hear Mycroft's deep sigh through the phone line. "Will we be expecting a happy announcement by the end of the week? You've become rather attached, haven't you?"

"I'm not  _attached_ , Mycroft. Just don't approach Rose again," he said threateningly.

"Don't worry, Sherlock," Mycroft replied in a bored tone. "The offer has been made. It's up to Ms Sulford whether or not she chooses to accept it. I won't need to speak to her again, in fact I prefer not to submerse myself in the quagmire of London's sub-cultures in which you so often find yourself. You know, your little ragabond group of friends rather reminds me of that collection of insects you kept in the summer of your youth - the ones that all perished under the little glass cloche in which you had them imprisoned."

Sherlock set his jaw firmly and said icily, "Don't bring up my childhood, Mycroft."

"Of course not, Sherlock. It was all rather awkward for you, wasn't it?"

Sherlock silently ended the call on his brother.  _Bastard!_

He needed to grab some items from Baker Street before heading back to Rose's flat. He was relieved she had suggested he visit her after work even though she didn't finish until midnight and was allowing him  _just this once_  to pick the lock now that his key no longer fit. He didn't know what had come over him in the laneway. Well, it's not that hard to figure out, but this was not his normal behaviour. He had apologised to Rose, but she seemed rather amused that Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective, wanted to have sex with her in the street.

Nothing was the same as it had been two years ago. Still, there was no point dwelling on the past. Sherlock had thought of a couple of other things he could now focus his attention on until a new case arose, and both of these were located at Leinster Gardens.

* * *

Rose pulled her coat tightly around herself, before turning to wave goodbye to her ride. The last few hours at the club had gone painstakingly slowly. All she could think of was curling up on the couch in Sherlock's warm embrace. Things had definitely taken a turn for the better.

As she drew closer to her building, she glanced up at the first floor, imagining Sherlock waiting for her upstairs, having been given permission to pick her lock once again. The light of the street lamp opposite revealed an outline of a pair of shoes resting on her balcony railing. Rose smiled inwardly at the thought of Sherlock feeling comfortable enough in her abode to assume the privilege of using her rolling tobacco. She put her fingers to her mouth and emitted a well-practised wolf whistle - the kind her and a friend had perfected in their late teens as a response to construction workers who would treat them with the same.

The shoes withdrew and the shadow of a Consulting Detective replaced them. As he pulled himself up to his full height, his smiling face was revealed in the dull glow of the street lamp.

"Rose," he called down as her expression brightened. "Stay there. I'm coming down."

His request puzzled Rose. "Why?" she asked, but the balcony was empty.

Rose walked over to the bottom of the stairwell, shivering slightly. Her coat was woefully inadequate.  _Should've worn the grey one tonight_ , she thought, chastising herself. Sherlock appeared moments later, cigarette firmly wedged between his lips as he wound his scarf around his neck.

"This has been bugging me for some time," he said, plucking the cigarette out of his mouth as he spoke. "No lights, no comings and goings, no movement at all." He took one last drag and then deposited it into the wall-mounted metal ashtray by the foot of the stairs. "And I noticed the same when we were sitting on your balcony the other night."

Sherlock's mood had picked up since leaving Rose earlier at the club. Not only had he discovered an oddity, but he had someone with whom he could share in its investigation. He had been enthusiastically awaiting Rose's return for the last hour or so.

"What are you talking about?" Rose asked him as he brushed past her and strode across the road, stopping outside the house opposite. "Oh," she commented in realisation, following Sherlock across the quiet street. "They're not real."

"Oh, of course!" Sherlock exclaimed. "The dummy houses of Bayswater. I didn't recall that they were here specifically."  _I must have deleted that fact._ Sherlock chuckled as he approached the portico.

"Ah, Sherlock? I'm tired and freezing. I'm going upstairs, okay?"

Sherlock turned around to address Rose, his eyes glinting in the semi-darkness. "Let's have a look, Rose. Aren't you curious?"

"Um, not really. And you can't..."

But Sherlock had already produced a flathead screwdriver, obviously obtained from her flat, and proceeded to pry apart the two boards that Rose could now see comprised the fake door. Rose nervously looked up and down Leinster Gardens. Not a soul stirred. Within moments there was an audible click of a latch snapping back into its barrel. Sherlock glanced around at Rose and winked. He stood up and pushed one side of the door revealing a narrow opening. "After you," he gestured in the manner of a gentlemen opening the door for a lady to a far finer establishment than this.

"No way!" Rose exclaimed in protest. "Are you kidding? It's dark. I might fall into an enormous pit. Sherlock, shut the door. We shouldn't be doing this."

"Nonsense. It's a mystery just beckoning to be solved," Sherlock said, pushing the door open further. He fished a torch out of his coat pocket and turned it on, directing the beam first along the ground before stepping inside. "The mere fact that this dummy house has a door of sorts with no door knob but sporting hinges means there's purpose for this space and therefore something to hide. I'm going to find out exactly who's responsible and why."

Rose stood in the doorway as Sherlock's torch swept the length and breadth of the empty house which turned out to be little more than the size of a passageway.

"I already know who owns it," she said in a loud whisper.

"What? Why are you whispering?" Sherlock queried at his normal volume. "There's nobody here."

"Sherlock, come out!" Rose beckoned in an even louder whisper.

"No, you come in. It's fascinating. Somebody's gone to the trouble of connecting electricity. Look." Sherlock toggled a light switch on the wall beside him and the room was bathed in the yellowish glow of an array of globes fixed to the wall all along the corridor.

Rose hastily stepped inside and shut the door in case anyone noticed the light emitting from the open doorway.

"It's owned by the lady who lives upstairs from me," Rose said quickly, realising that the more information she imparted to Sherlock, the quicker his curiosity could be satisfied and the sooner they could leave.

"Really?" Sherlock asked, his eyes lighting up with glee.

"Yes. She's a bit strange; there's all these rumours about her. I don't even like to be on the same set of stairs as her actually."

"Who is she? What's her name? And why does she own this building?"

"I'll tell you her  _name_  once we're safe and sound back in my flat. I don't know much more than that."

* * *

"Will you be long?" Rose asked, regarding Sherlock who was in the middle of watching an instructional video on YouTube about how to play Poker.

"What?" he asked, not managing to tear his eyes from the screen.

Rose was freshly showered and had wrapped herself in her dressing gown, ready for a naked romp in the sack with Sherlock. At least that was _her_ plan.  _His_ was to become an expert overnight on the card game so he could show up to the monthly open invitation extended to the block residents and their friends to play Poker in the flat of one Tonya Small, aka the Clarence House Cannibal.

Rose was disappointed that the identify of the owner of the empty house across the road had resulted in Sherlock's new obsession. She had mentioned Tonya Small's name and Sherlock had repeated it under his breath until his eyes lit up in recognition.

"Of course!" he exclaimed. "The Clarence House Cannibal!"

Rose was horrified that such a person lived upstairs from her. She'd of course heard of the rumours about Ms Small - about how all of her lovers ended up with various body parts missing: ears, pinky fingers, an appendix one time. And the donated body parts were all consumed, delicately cooked and presented, over candlelight and wine, in the company of the aforementioned lovers. At least that was the tale of horror spoken in hushed voices within and around Leinster Gardens.

Sherlock had delighted in the rumours, having heard a few of his own over the years. Nothing could ever be proven, and the Clarence House Cannibal - so named because of her resemblance to a youthful Elizabeth Bowes-Lyon, the Queen Mother, the original Clarence House occupant, although not a cannibal - remained at large and free to indulge in her culinary passions in the privacy of her own home.

Rose had informed Sherlock about the monthly darts game Tonya used to host, which had morphed into a Poker game over the years. The next one was due this very Saturday, and Sherlock was determined to meet her. He had no cases, and this was an opportunity for studying the criminally insane that he was loathe to miss.

"Why on earth would you want to meet her? She seems positively hideous!" Rose had exclaimed, horrified.

"Rose, she may be perfectly delightful! When I was abroad, I met the most fascinating woman. She was hanged for poisoning three little children for the insurance money. You can't judge a person by outward appearances and speculation. The most repellent man I've ever come across is a philanthropist who has spent a substantial amount of his fortune helping the London poor. Absolute wanker he is."

"Sherlock, I really don't think you should do this," Rose remarked. But Sherlock was no longer listening and had grabbed her laptop and settled into her couch while she tutted, then retreated to the bathroom to shower and prepare for bed.

When Sherlock barely replied to her query, Rose seated herself beside him on the couch, leaning in closely to him. He furrowed his brow at her close proximity - the 'frivolous touching' that usually annoyed him - but turned his attention back to the definition of a straight flush.

Rose blinked slowly.  _Tired_. It was almost 2am, and she wasn't going to stay awake much longer, much less have the energy to indulge in some Consulting Detective loving. She was hoping to come home and find Sherlock in the same frame of mind as he had been earlier that night.

She sat up and said, "Come to bed soon," then leant over to kiss his cheek. She was momentarily thrown when Sherlock imperceptibly tilted his face toward her to receive her kiss. His eyes were still glued to the screen however. Rose lingered a little longer, kissing him one more time before finally cupping her hand to his jaw and encouraging him to turn his head to face her.

"Don't be long," she whispered again in an attempt to capture his attention at least fleetingly. She leant in, pressing her lips to his.

When she drew back, Sherlock was regarding her through narrow eyes. Rose had no inkling that he was reflecting on the deal that his brother had struck with the former prostitute. He had noticed the absence of the cheque on the coffee table earlier. Had she cashed it, thereby signalling her acceptance of the offer? Was she doing her 'job' once more? Would a therapy session follow?

Rose gave him an imperceptible smile as she retreated. She stood up, her hands dropping to the sash of her dressing gown. As she turned and walked toward the bedroom she unfastened the sash and the robe slipped from her shoulders, falling to the floor. She called once more over her shoulder, with a hint of a smile, "Don't be long."

The door to her bedroom clicked shut, snapping Sherlock out of the mini-trance he had found himself in. Rose was acting like she was on the job again, he thought, trying to seduce him with her nakedness once more. Was she successful?

Sort of.

Sherlock placed Rose's computer down onto the coffee table. There was no point in studying the game through YouTube videos any longer. He actually needed practical experience before sitting down to a proper game with the Clarence House Cannibal on Saturday night.

He made his way to Rose's bedroom. Opening the door a tad, he glanced in. By the light of her bedside lamp he could see Rose rearranging herself underneath the thin sheet on one side of the bed. She graced him with a seductive smile that he strived to ignore for the moment.

"Do you know how to play Poker?" he asked once she'd settled down.

Rose furrowed her brow as she lay her head onto a pillow. "I know one version of Poker," she said resignedly.

"Let me guess," Sherlock remarked, his eyes twinkling in amusement. "You have to remove an article of clothing every time you lose a hand."

"Yep, you guessed it."

"Still, you'd have to understand the rudiments of the game despite what you give up on losing."

"Yes, Sherlock, but no, I don't want to play right now. I want to get some sleep. Wake me up if you want to have sex later." Rose sighed and turned to her side, closing her eyes.

"No, we'll have sex now," Sherlock said matter-of-factly, leaving the door ajar and turning back to the living room. "Just grabbing the laptop."

"What?" Rose responded, sitting bolt upright.

Sherlock returned momentarily with Rose's computer tucked under his arm. He grinned broadly and shut the door behind him. "You'll be happy to know that I brought over a sample of condoms from my flat. I've already placed them in your bedside drawer."

Rose gaped, before saying, " _Happy_  isn't the right word for how I'm feeling right now."

Sherlock ignored her as he made his way to the other side of the bed, depositing the computer onto the bedside table. He was glad he'd thought of their little research project upon leaving Shoreditch and wondering how he was going to spend case-less days. Investigating the mystery of the Leinster Gardens empty houses was well under way, and now they also had their condom industry marketing research to undertake.

He turned to her, unbuttoning his shirt as he spoke with a little too much enthusiasm for Rose's liking. "I've uploaded my spreadsheet onto a cloud so we can access it from either here or my place."

"Um..." Rose remarked hesitatingly.

"It's in the form of a questionnaire," he continued, undeterred by Rose's non-response. Walking back around the bed to hang up his shirt, he added, "Some of the questions require dichotomous answers - that just means 'yes' or 'no', and others I've used the Stapel scale over the semantic deferential scale. It will be easier to compute a total rating that way." When Rose looked both confused and alarmed, Sherlock quickly added, "Don't worry. I'll guide you through it. Child's play really."

He continued undressing, hanging up his clothing in Rose's wardrobe as she drew the sheet up higher, and sat up to hug her knees.

"I'm not entirely comfortable with this, Sherlock," she managed to say, noting his burgeoning excitement through his trousers and silently hoping it was as a result of glimpsing her naked body earlier, and not about being pleased with his efforts at designing an efficient survey on a spreadsheet.

"The results won't be made public until we've finished, which may be a year away. I think we should try each brand at least three times, going through all of them once first. We didn't discuss the idea of using no condoms as a control, but for that we should get blood tests done for-"

"Sherlock!"

"What?" he asked, shutting the robe door now that he was stripped down to his underwear.

"I don't want to take part in your survey."

Sherlock pulled down his boxers, sitting on the bed by Rose's legs. "Why not? The results will be much more comprehensive if we have both a male and female perspective."

"I - I don't want to have sex with you and have to think about how I'm going to respond to a questionnaire."

Sherlock tutted. "An awareness is all I'm asking for during the actual engagement. You'll have a chance to ponder your answers afterwards. After the first few rounds you'll get used to it, and if we have to declare the initial trials null and void we can do so. We're not on a strict time frame. It'll be fun!"

He grinned widely once more and Rose grew frightened. "I don't want to," she all but whispered.

Sherlock furrowed his brow, wondering why someone of Rose's wide and varied experiences couldn't make use of her skills somehow. "Come on, Rose. It'll be fun as well as informative. I've already written a blog post containing my analysis of 243 types of tobacco ash, as well as one identifying the varying types of perfume. My last one-"

"Sherlock," Rose said in exasperation. She shook her head minutely.

Sherlock brooded for all of a second, trying to determine what kind of incentive he could use to make Rose cooperate if the satisfaction gained from a well-researched project was not enough for her.

He struck upon an idea and smiled at her encouragingly. Putting on his best pleading face - the one he used quite unsuccessfully in the past for getting John to tell him where his cigarettes had been hidden - he said, "Look Rose, if you participate in this research I'll... I'll  _hug you_  after we have sex."

Rose was momentarily stunned. "H-hug me?"

Sherlock tried to look earnest. "Yes," he answered simply.

"After sex?"

"Yes."

"When you can't stand me touching you?"

Sherlock reflected on those moments for a micro-second. Trying to display no emotion whatsoever, he answered again, "Yes."

A slow grin spread across Rose's face. She shuffled over toward the middle of the bed, making room for Sherlock, and asked, "What sort of hug? One where you've sort of collapsed on top of me, or one where I'm lying on your chest?"

Sherlock climbed under the sheet next to Rose and tried to determine which would be the least irritating position. "Me on top?" he answered tentatively.

Rose considered this option for a moment. "Mmm, no not really."

He furrowed his brow. "Why not?"

"That would be more like  _me_ hugging  _you_  then. You can't really get your arms around me."

"Of course I can."

Rose lay down on her side, facing Sherlock as she explained, "Then I'd be sort of lying on your arms. So it has to be me with my head on your chest with you embracing me."

Sherlock brought the image of this scenario to his mind.  _Ugh. The hair._ How long would he be able to tolerate that for?

"All right," he conceded, lying down on his side and facing Rose as well. "You on top."

Rose's grin broadened. "And how long will this hug last?"

"One minute."

Rose was appalled. "A one minute hug?"

Sherlock couldn't see why she was objecting. One minute was like 60 seconds of torture. And he knew all about torture. You had to put yourself in a particular frame of mind in order to withstand it. The minute following sex with Rose was not conducive to entering that state. "Is that not adequate?"

"Not really. I was thinking more like five minutes."

" _Five minutes_!" It was Sherlock's turn to be outraged. "I can't hug you for five minutes!"

Rose felt wounded. Perhaps she'd misread his body language. "Really?" she queried. "Am I that repulsive?"

"You're not at all repulsive, Rose. The refractory period is when I'm at my most sensitive; I don't like to be touched. However, I'm willing to put aside my personal discomfort in the name of research."

Rose raised her eyebrows and huffed a small laugh. "Four minutes then."

"Two minutes and I won't complain," Sherlock countered.

Rose gaped at Sherlock. "You mean you were going to complain for the entire one minute?"

Sherlock shrugged non-commitedly. "I wouldn't be able to help it, especially if your hair is moving over my chest."

Rose studied Sherlock's face before concluding that he was, of course, serious. "Three minutes and I'll twist my hair out of the way - over my shoulder or something." She grabbed at her hair and demonstrated the twisting action before resting it over her shoulder.

The compromise seemed to satisfy Sherlock after a fashion. He asked, "You'll answer my questionnaire then?"

"After the hugging, yes."

" _All_ of my questions?" he asked through narrow eyes.

Rose tilted her head and carefully asked, "How many questions are there?"

"I've combined a couple, but split the ones that need to stand out-"

"How many Sherlock?" she asked more firmly.

"Twenty-two."

Rose's eyebrows shot up. "Twenty-two?"

"And a place for extra comments."

"Extra comments?"

"You know, in case you need to add something I haven't covered."

"I know what I'll be adding," Rose murmured petulantly.

Sherlock ignored Rose's last remark and grinned broadly. "Do we have a deal?"

Rose slowly sat up and then leant over Sherlock. "Of sorts," she replied, then reached over in order to open her bedside drawer. "What do we have?"

Sherlock sighed as Rose's breasts lightly caressed his chest. He distractedly placed one hand on her back and lightly stroked her bare skin. "Just pick out any. It will be like a  _lucky dip_."

Rose smiled at Sherlock's comment and rummaged around the drawer, her fingers skimming a multitude of condom packets. She drew one out and sat up as she read the packet. "Ultra thin for-"

"Shh, don't tell me! It will ruin the surprise!"

Rose breathed out deeply. It was going to be a long night. "Are you supposed to be surprised?"

"Probably best not to have preconceived notions," Sherlock advised her.

Trying to not roll her eyes, Rose said, "I'll get something else then." She plucked out another, slid the drawer shut and said, "No peeking!" She placed the packet down on top of the bedside table and straddled Sherlock without taking her eyes off his, to ensure his gaze didn't stray. He regarded her with a smile tugging at his lips and affection in his eyes.

Rose's heart skipped a beat, and she reflected once again on the first time they had ever had sex. They were at a similar starting point as they were now, with a couple of exceptions: Sherlock was rock hard, and she was intending to enjoy every minute of him.

Rose gave Sherlock a seductive wink before lowering her head toward him. She did her absolute best to drive that goddamn spreadsheet out of Sherlock's mind.


	22. Quite a Gambler That Woman

**Chapter 22 - Quite a Gambler That Woman**

This is lovely, thought Rose. She was lying with her head resting on Sherlock's chest, one arm casually across his torso, with both his arms embracing her. This was the third night in a row that she and Sherlock had engaged in a post-coital three minute hug. Rose was enjoying the almost-tenderness caused by Sherlock distractedly caressing her arm with his thumb as he offered his theories on John and the bonfire. These last couple of nights his monologues usually alternated between John and the terrorist threat and how to read 'tells' in people's faces when they played Poker. It was the second topic that alarmed Rose the most: the impending card game with the Clarence House Cannibal.

But still, while Sherlock was distracted with his own musings, Rose was sure the "three minutes" were getting longer, so she endeavoured to stay silent in case Sherlock remembered she was there and that he was hugging her. She was quite certain that he was only thinking aloud anyway, and didn't require any input from her.

When he tapped her arm, she knew the fun was over, and it was time to respond to his damn questionnaire.

"Why don't I just fill it in myself?" Rose asked as she sat up and handed over the laptop. "You don't always have to read them out to me."

Sherlock had sat up also, positioning himself against the headboard. "Because you _accidentally_  delete things."

Rose stifled a laugh as Sherlock continued. "And don't feign innocence with me. I saw your fingers hit the control and minus keys after you highlighted an entire column. These things don't accidentally happen. I do credit you with a moderate amount of intelligence after all."

He shot an irritated look at Rose as she leant in to kiss his cheek.

"Oh, Sherlock," she said in a half-whisper, as she attempted to nestle against his shoulder. "I just can't take you seriously when you start talking about penetration. I just want you to penetrate me all over again."

"That's rubbish, Rose," Sherlock snapped, reflexively hunching his shoulders to discourage Rose's close proximity. "We've only just finished. You couldn't possibly be aroused so soon."

Rose pouted, sitting up fully and swinging her legs off the side of the bed.

Sherlock cleared his throat and said, "Question One... " He looked up in surprise as Rose left the room. "Where are you going?"

"That's a different Question One," she shot back facetiously.

"Not funny, Rose."

Sherlock quietly and thoughtfully filled in his own responses to the questionnaire about the condom they had chosen at random for the evening's entertainment. When he had finished, he checked the wrapper for the final question, which asked whether or not the label and description of the condom matched his experience. Sherlock tutted and shook his head.  _Another one for the false advertising category._

"Can I fill it in now?" Rose asked when she returned from the bathroom.

"No. You'll only look at my responses and cheat."

Rose sighed and curled up under the covers, giving monosyllabic answers to most of Sherlock's questions. Luckily the questions only required such simplistic answers until the last half dozen. Sherlock tutted as he closed the lid of the laptop and placed it onto the nightstand once they'd finished.

"Well, you're getting better, but I'm in two minds whether or not to invalidate tonight's results."

"That will be three out of three," Rose replied sleepily.

Sherlock turned out the bedside lamp on his side of the bed and shuffled under the covers.

"You're not taking it seriously," he said sullenly, his voice floating through the darkened room. "And don't think for one second that I'm not aware of the fact that our hug went for nine minutes. So in effect, you owe me two questionnaire responses with no after sex hugging."

Rose sighed and closed her eyes.

* * *

 _Saturday morning. An all day shift. Crap._  Rose shivered and tightly pulled her dressing gown around her as she shuffled to the bathroom. Sherlock had woken up earlier. He had established a habit of showering, shaving and dressing early, then taking 'breakfast' out on Rose's balcony before leaving for the day - breakfast comprising one rolled cigarette of Golden Virginia tobacco.

However this morning when Rose emerged from the bathroom, she found Sherlock waiting for her in the kitchen after his morning smoko. He was dressed to leave, complete with scarf and coat, and held out a mug of tea.

"Saw that you were awake, and thought I'd make you tea before I left," he said warmly.

"Hmm," Rose replied pensively after taking the proffered beverage. "You never make me tea. You don't even say goodbye. What are you after?"

Sherlock sighed and replied wearily, "You know Rose. Just a heads up."

The tea was halfway to her lips before she realised what Sherlock was requesting. "Sherlock!" she said in protest, and placed the mug back down onto the kitchen counter.

"I can't just turn up," Sherlock argued. "Everyone will recognise me and it will take all the attention away from Ms Small."

"I don't want you to go!"

This was a continuation of an argument they'd already had the day before. Sherlock was still determined to attend the monthly Poker game hosted by Tonya Small, the Clarence House Cannibal, who lived upstairs from Rose. He was fascinated by the woman as an interesting specimen of the criminally insane.

"This may be my only chance before she does something stupid and gets herself caught. I have to meet her in her natural habitat. Can you just let her know I'll be coming?"

"Sherlock, no!"

"Rose..." Sherlock paused, before huffing a sigh then saying the word he despised the most. "Please?" He even attempted an accompanying smile.

Rose calculated her options. This was a favour to Sherlock, and he could possibly owe her big time. He only needed her to check whether or not it was okay with Ms Small if he joined their table at cards, given that Rose wasn't going to attend. She was eligible as a resident of the block of flats, with Sherlock technically being her guest. Rose was working that night at the strip club, and even if she wasn't working, there was no way she'd want to go.

"Okay," she said slowly. "But you have to do something for me in return."

Sherlock frowned. This couldn't be good. Surely this had pointless sentiment written all over it. He was correct of course.

"You have to give me a hug and a kiss every time you arrive and every time you leave."

Sherlock scoffed. "Really? But you're asleep whenever I leave, and I'm already here before you get home."

"So? Wake me up with a kiss. That'll be nice. And you can still greet me when I get home. Just try to detach yourself from the couch when I come in, okay?"

"I... suppose," Sherlock responded with a shrug of indifference. Seemed like a small price to pay, however idiotic.

Rose was pleased. This would make a nice change to just waking up and finding the flat empty, or returning home after a late night at the crisis centre or strip club to find Sherlock lolling about on the couch. Last night he greeted her with, "Did you know that Mr Scanlan who lives directly above you masturbates at ten past seven  _every evening_? Turns the news on first, then I think he locks his dog in the closet. So there's the sound of these dramatic news events interspersed with a yapping dog and a..."

"Sherlock!" Rose had remarked, horrified at the visual imagery he was providing.

They never ate dinner together, nor took breakfast, so this would serve as something approaching a normal relationship. At this point in time, Rose would take what she could get from him. The first morning he'd left without saying goodbye, she dreaded what she'd discover on the side table before the door. But she was relieved to find that Sherlock hadn't paid her for the evening. So they were making progress. One day Sherlock may actually admit to having feelings for her, she was sure of it.

"Right, well I'm going then," he said, patting his pockets to check that he had everything. He fished his gloves from his coat pocket and preceded to put them on. "There's an online Poker game starting in the U.S. in two hours, so I want to get home to sign up and organise my credit. Get a few games under my belt before tonight," he added enthusiastically.

"Am I supposed to tell Tonya that it's the famous Sherlock Holmes who wants in, or should we make up a name?" Rose asked.

"The truth, Rose," Sherlock answered, as he moved toward her. "My photo's been plastered in every paper from here to Kuala Lumpur. I don't think I could get away with a pseudonym. But I should be fine. There's an unspoken rule with these games. Everybody exercises a certain amount of discretion." A sly grin spread from one corner of Sherlock's mouth as he said, "Apparently what happens at Poker nights stays at the Poker nights."

Rose's stomach churned at the thought of what could happened at this particular Poker night. "It's a wonder the press don't follow you around, though. Aren't you worried they'll find out you come here a lot?"

Sherlock's smile reassured her just a little. "I can easily shake off a tail, Rose. The only person who's been particularly keen to go to any great lengths to stalk me is pretty benign. He was one of a handful of people who believed I was still alive, so he's still a bit obsessed with me. Oh, you know him. You joined his little club."

Rose furrowed her brow, then tutted in distaste. "You mean that Philip guy who ran The Empty Hearse?"

"Philip Anderson, yes. He's followed me as far as the corner, but he doesn't know I come to your apartment block specifically."

"Okay then," Rose remarked wearily. "I'll go up and talk to Tonya before I leave for work, okay?"

"That's fine."

Rose smiled wanly as Sherlock held out his arms.

"This is your hug," he began.

"You won't need to explain it each time," Rose cut in as she was enveloped in his embrace.

"Just keeping up my end of the deal."

Rose wound her arms around Sherlock's neck and said that she wouldn't be home in between finishing at Roches and commencing her shift at the Rendezvous. It was quicker for her to go directly to the strip club than to come home to change first. Not seeing Sherlock beforehand worried her though.

"Sherlock, please be careful."

"It's just Poker, Rose. I'm merely using this opportunity to study the woman in her..."

"...own habitat, I know. But still... if she's what everyone says she is, then you may be in danger."

"From what?"

"From her. Being eaten!"

Sherlock began to chuckle and his eyes were bright with mischief. "You do know it takes two to participate in Ms Small's little culinary soiree don't you? She doesn't just pounce on people with a carving knife wearing a frilly apron. It  _is_  all consensual."

Rose reeled at Sherlock's description, wondering how he could remain so calm about it all. "How do you know that?"

"I've done my research."

"Then why hasn't she been arrested?"

"There's no obvious victims, no real witnesses and no evidence. Just heresay. But I know when someone's lying or not." When Sherlock realised that Rose was still looking concerned he rubbed her back a little and added, "Look Rose, nothing's going to happen to me that I won't want to happen, all right?"

"Why am I not reassured by that statement?"

Sherlock bent his head and said, "Do you want your kiss now, so I can go?"

* * *

Rose applied make-up and dressed for work faster than usual. She was resigned to the fact that she would have to speak to Tonya Small before leaving to take the tube to Roches Entertainment. Ringing was not an option. Tonya had supplied her mobile number as the RSVP contact for the card game, but Rose knew it would only go through to her Messagebank. Tonya despised the impersonal nature of the technology and Rose wanted to receive immediate confirmation as to whether or not Sherlock could attend. Of course she could always just lie to the man, and say it wasn't possible for him to participate without a block resident present, but she knew he would be enormously disappointed if he didn't get to go, and she would feel worse if she hadn't even tried on his behalf. And something told her that he would know if she had lied.

Rose inhaled deeply before knocking on the door to the fifth floor flat. Tonya's sultry voice from within called out, "I won't be a moment, darling."

Tonya called everyone _darling_ , without exception.

When the Welsh beauty eventually opened the door, Rose was rendered practically speechless as always by the mere presence of the forty-something year old. Long dark locks cascaded over one shoulder, which she casually flicked aside with a perfectly manicured hand. Her small dark eyes and luscious lashes were made for smiling, which is what she was doing at this moment on seeing who her visitor was. Her whole face lit up in greeting.

"My darling Rosebud."

Ms Small also had an affectionate name for everyone she had met in the block. Ettie Schafter, who lived three doors down from Rose, was called _SpagEttie_ , and Michael Scanlan, the serial masturbateur - at least according to Sherlock - received the nickname  _Mickey Mouse._  Rose had only spoken to Tonya on three occasions, but Tonya remembered every single detail of their encounters and welcomed Rose like a long lost niece. Curiously though, Tonya seemed to know additional details about Rose that the latter had no recollection of ever revealing. It was as if Ms Small could read people, a little bit like...

...Sherlock.

"Ms Small, sorry to call so early," Rose said hesitatingly.

"Nonsense," Tonya said dismissively, waving her hand to usher Rose into her flat while she sashayed into the kitchen area. "Please call me Tonya, you know that by now. Come in. You'll have to excuse my rudeness. I have to feed my darling babies before they start nibbling on Mummy's favourite cushions again."

Rose hesitantly followed Tonya into the kitchen where she found two miniature Schnauzers lying in a soft dog bed. They immediately sat up and starting barking at her.

"Don't mind them. They're just waiting for their din-dins, aren't you my darlings?"

Tonya bent down to give each puppy a kiss. Rose immediately wanted to leave. She hated small dogs. They were always so jumpy and yappy. She was relieved when Tonya placed their food bowls on the floor and the Clarence House Cannibal's "babies" were suitably distracted.

"Now, Rosebud dear, a cup of tea?"

"Thank you Tonya, but I mustn't stay long. I'm due to open the store in half an hour."

"Ah, the television store. Not as exciting as working in an adults only nightclub, no?"

Rose smiled politely, while internally panicking about the fact that Tonya knew this about her. Where had that information come from?

"Come. We'll sit comfortably while my darlings are having breakfast."

Rose followed Tonya back into her living room, saying, "I won't keep you. I just wanted to ask about the card game tonight."

Tonya spun around gracefully, her face lighting up. "You are coming? Darling Rose, I've been asking you for two years!"

"I'd love to, but I'm working the late shift at the club."

"Not dancing I hope," Tonya remarked with a frown.

Rose smiled wanly again. "Not dancing. Just checking coats. No, I was actually wondering if a friend could come in my place. He's really keen, and..."

Again Tonya's face lit up. "A gentleman friend?"

"Just a friend," Rose added swiftly.

Tonya quirked an eyebrow in the manner of someone who knows otherwise. "And he wants to remain anonymous... because he has a disapproving wife?"

"Ah, not quite. He's a bit of a celebrity actually."

"Oh!" Tonya clapped her hands in delight. "Which celebrity? No, let me guess. From  _Sussex Sons_  or  _Summerville_?"

"Ah, neither," Rose replied, wondering why Tonya assumed he'd be an actor on a TV soap. "He's not on telly. He's... um... Sherlock Holmes."

Tonya's eyes widened in ecstasy. "Sherlock Holmes!"

"You've heard of him, then."

"Mr Sherlock Holmes! The poorly misunderstood genius detective. Oh!" Tonya exclaimed again, and she fluffed out her hair as if Sherlock was just around the corner.

 _So you have heard of him,_  Rose thought with a sinking feeling.

"My darling, of course Mr Holmes is welcome," Tonya gushed eagerly. "Will he be bringing his friend?"

"His friend?"

"The other one... ah..." Tonya furrowed her brow, deep in thought. "Oh... Doctor... ah..."

"Doctor Watson?"

"Yes!"

"Um... no. I don't think so."

"Pity," Tonya replied, looking quite disappointed. "But still, this is... most opportunistic. I may have to bump Mr Cadogan..." she muttered to herself.

"Oh, don't go to any trouble," Rose replied swiftly. Any hiccup that would somehow exclude Sherlock from the game was welcome. "If there's no room at the table, Sherlock will understand."

"No, no... Mr Cadogan has been having difficulties repaying his debts from the last game. I will have to insist he pays up or he's out," Tonya mused, more to herself than to Rose. A sly smile spread across her lips, and Rose's heart thumped anxiously.

"Tell Mr Holmes 8pm sharp. And I'm sorry, Rosebud, but if you're not coming along to play, you are not permitted to observe. I have very strict rules about audiences."

"No, that's fine, Tonya. I'll be at work til quite late," Rose replied defeatedly. She was rather hoping Sherlock would be excluded. "I'll let Sherlock know."

Tonya kissed Rose on both cheeks. As Rose left, she heard Tonya Small humming to herself as she moved about her flat. Clearly the woman had a new spring in her step at the prospect of the Consulting Detective joining her Poker game. Rose felt positively ill as she left for the Bayswater tube station.

* * *

There was no way Rose could sleep. It was almost 2am, and there was no sign of Sherlock. She had sent him a text on her way to work that morning, telling him that he was in, and to be at Tonya's flat by 8pm. She'd received a brief, "Thanks," as a reply and nothing else. She was far too busy at closing time to remember to phone Sherlock before he arrived at Leinster Gardens. She was focussed on travelling from the entertainment store to the club in Shoreditch in the early evening in time for her shift. She assumed she wouldn't be able to contact him during the game, so she was anxious to find out how he was going, or even if he had actually made it to the game.

When she was dropped off at the kerb outside the block after her midnight shift had ended, she glanced upwards, first toward her balcony and then to Tonya Small's fifth floor balcony. There were no smokers standing outside, and the only presence of life she could see was the light through the window. There were no shadows or noises from within that she could detect.

Her flat was disappointingly empty. A few times Rose thought she could just sneak up and hover outside Ms Small's door, but she thought that would seem quite pathetic. So she showered and changed into her dressing gown, and lay on her couch to watch late night telly.

Her eyes were starting to droop when she heard the sound of keys in her door. She sat bolt upright as Sherlock strode in. His eyes were twinkling and his grin broadened when he caught sight of Rose.

"My God, Sherlock!" she cried as she raced over to him and threw her arms around his neck.

Sherlock cleared his throat and banded his arms around Rose. "Did you stay up just so you could receive my hug?"

"No," Rose replied, her voice muffled against Sherlock's coat. It smellt very smoky. "Are you okay?" she asked, pulling back.

Sherlock matched Rose's look of concern with one of amusement. "Of course I am."

Rose stepped out of his grasp, and cast a worried look at his extremities. "Are you sure?"

"God, Rose," he replied, shrugging out of his coat."Of course I am," he said again. "What did you think?"

Rose watched as Sherlock hung up his coat by the front door. He then removed his jacket, his brow furrowed in distaste. "I'll have to get these dry-cleaned tomorrow. The odours of no less than five different types of cigarette tobacco and one cigar. And Ms Small's a pipe smoker."

"So... it was all okay?" Rose asked hesitantly. "Did you win or lose?"

Sherlock grinned again, and made his way toward the living room window, grasping Rose's hand as he went. "Come and have a look," he beckoned.

Puzzled, Rose let herself be led by Sherlock. He parted the curtains and gestured for Rose to stand in front of him at the window. "There, Rose," he said.

"What? I can't see anything. It's too dark."

"Precisely. No lights, remember."

"The empty house?"

"Yes. I'm now the proud owner of number 23 Leinster Gardens."

Rose paused a moment as Sherlock's words sunk in. "You won?"

"Eventually," Sherlock said, leaving the window abruptly. He huffed and said, "I just need a shower. She uses this oriental tobacco, grown in Turkey. Its sour room note doesn't agree with me."

"How much did you lose?" Rose asked, but Sherlock clicked the bathroom door shut behind him.

Rose sighed and turned off the television and the lights in the living area and decided to wait for Sherlock in bed. He emerged ten minutes later, freshly showered, with a towel wrapped around him, carrying his shirt and trousers. He smiled again at Rose, who was lying under the covers. Obviously he had enjoyed himself tonight. Rose looked on as Sherlock hung up his clothes in her wardrobe.

She had made sure her laptop was as far enough away from her bed as possible. She had stowed it in a kitchen cupboard along with her plastic containers.

"Henry Baker was on a losing streak," Sherlock began, as he opened one of the drawers in Rose's bureau.

"Who's Henry Baker?"

Sherlock frowned and shot a glance at Rose. He withdrew a t-shirt and pyjama bottoms from the drawer. Rose noticed that they were Sherlock's pjs as he replied, "Number 12, third floor. Married to Ailsa.  _Prince Harry_ , Ms Small calls him."

Disregarding the information about _Prince Harry_ , Rose asked, "H-how did your pyjamas get here?"

Sherlock turned around then had second thoughts. He dumped his nightwear on top of the bureau and said, "I don't need to bother with dressing until afterwards, do I?"

"Why are they here?" Rose asked suspiciously.

Sherlock tutted as he dropped the towel on a chair, then slid, completely naked, under the covers. He lay on his side facing Rose. "Isn't it obvious? Rose you really need to look at visual cues and use what you know of the world in order to reach an intelligent conclusion."

Rose sighed and lay down. "You brought them here earlier?"

"Precisely. The fact that I opened that exact drawer without hesitation and had no reaction to seeing my own garments stored among your things has made your query superfluous. I brought them to leave here along with a spare toothbrush and razor. You don't mind, do you?"

"Why would I mind?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Dunno. You seem to get upset about an extraordinary amount of ridiculous things."

Rose reached out, cupping Sherlock's face and lightly caressing his cheek with her thumb. " _You're_  the ridiculous thing I get upset about," she said softly. She narrowed the gap between them and pressed her lips to his.

Sherlock automatically slid his arm around her, pulling Rose closer. This level of intimacy had become a reflex for him now. There was no hesitancy in obtaining what he wanted from Rose these days - to feel her soft skin and smooth curves pressed up against him. He returned her kiss briefly before he drew away, a small smile tugging at his lips.

"What?" she asked, puzzled.

"I don't understand what you're upset about."

Rose's dropped her hand to Sherlock's chest and her gaze fell as well. "I thought you might come back with pieces missing."

Sherlock chuckled again and planted a kiss on Rose's forehead. She looked at up him and he challenged in a voice pitched low, pressing himself against her, "Why don't you check? See if everything's where it's meant to be?"

"Sherlock Holmes," Rose murmured against his lips, "Are you flirting with me?"

Sherlock's lips brushed against hers again, and he brought his hand up to the nape of Rose's neck, entwining his fingers in her hair. "I never flirt."

Their lips met once more, crushing against each other in a fierce heat. Rose rolled onto her back bringing Sherlock on top of her. She wasn't completely passive but these days it was definitely Sherlock who dominated their love making. Rose was more than willing to give up the role of facilitator of sexual encounters. She was able to enjoy sex for herself; there was no need or desire to carefully manipulate the play so that she didn't become aroused, or her partner didn't get exactly what he wanted in as quick a timeframe as possible. Her needs were as important as his, and Rose relished the fact that Sherlock made her satisfaction his highest priority.

Rose's sigh was like music to Sherlock's ears. As he continued his descent he noted whenever she'd arch under his touch, press herself harder against him or murmur his name. He knew every inch of her so intimately that getting her within moments of a climax was mere child's play. She wouldn't let him take her there though, without withdrawing herself from his touch and fumbling through her bedside drawers for the protection.

Sherlock sat up suddenly and looked around as Rose's fingers grasped a random condom packet.

"Wait a minute," Sherlock said, frowning. "Where's the laptop?"

Rose tutted and placed the prophylactic on top of the nightstand. "It's Saturday night. Survey-free sex. I've decided."

Sherlock scowled. "You're ruining the study."

"You're ruining the mood," Rose countered as she lay back down again and waited expectantly for Sherlock to resume.

And so he did, and Rose was sorry she had annoyed him. He brought her to the edge three times, chuckling each time she gasped and then left her there while he turned his attention to her neck or earlobe, or anywhere else except where she wanted him to be. After the third time, Sherlock, now the expert that he was, slipped on the condom keeping Rose distracted and then plunged inside of her, enormously satisfied with the moan he elicited from her.

Rose was determined to get her own back. When they swapped positions she purposefully teased him with a slower than usual rhythm, and then she climbed from him and the bed altogether.

"Rose," Sherlock said breathlessly. "What the fuck are you doing?"

Rose looked on in surprise. It wasn't very often she'd hear Sherlock swear so impulsively.

"Getting a drink of water," she replied mischievously, and she swanned out of the bedroom.

Sherlock was momentarily shocked by this interruption to their session. Recovering quickly he shot off the bed, surprising Rose by the wall before the kitchen. He grabbed her by the arm and whirled her around.

"You're fucking kidding me," he rasped, pushing her against the wall.

Rose yelped in surprise, then saw the fire in Sherlock's eyes. She would tease him no longer. Arousal and desire cut deep within her from that gaze alone. Her arms were around him, and she pleaded, "Do you want me here?"

There was no verbal reply from Sherlock, but the hunger in his eyes was all Rose needed. His arms pulled her in roughly and he used the wall as leverage to hoist Rose upwards. Rose straddled him and Sherlock drove into her once more, the intensity sending a delicious shudder right through her.

Her head was reeling, and she initially went rigid when she felt how roughly he had taken her. Then she softened and yielded to him as his quick ragged breath cooled her neck. As her response grew, Rose moaned in satisfaction.

Desire ripped through Sherlock as Rose's mouth found his, wet and hungry. He hadn't known a need so dark and desperate. There were too many sensations raging through him, and he drove in deeper, his rhythm quickening as Rose demanded more.

She clung to him and Sherlock met her needs with an urgency that triggered a raw intense heat inside him. Hearing her gasp his name, Sherlock found himself driven beyond his ability to think and reason.

Rose gripped Sherlock's hair and dug her nails into his back as her body shuddered, the waves of her climax overwhelming and consuming her. She brought Sherlock over the edge with her, his own orgasm ripping through him, staggering him, leaving him stunned and terrified in its wake.

He pulled out of Rose and slowly released her, lowering her to the ground. They hadn't had sex with such intensity and ferocity before and it completely unnerved him - particularly the sense of abandonment and loss of control.

"Rose, I'm.. I'm sorry." His voice was thick with emotion and regret.

He moved away from her and Rose could see that he was conflicted. She reached out to reassure him, but he stepped backwards.

"No... I hurt you. I'm sorry." He backed away then turned, escaping into the bathroom and abruptly slamming the door behind him.

Rose called to him through the door, but his silence spoke volumes. She had to let him have a moment, so she went back to her bedroom, drew on her dressing gown and waited in bed.

In the bathroom, Sherlock cleaned himself up and splashed cold water onto his face.  _Sex doesn't alarm me,_  was what he thought over and over. He'd spoken those words to Mycroft, years ago now, but how could Sherlock have known what he was saying? What happened here, right now, with Rose?

They'd had sex almost every night since his return. He'd never indulged that much in his life, and he could see now it was definitely becoming addictive. Perhaps Mycroft was right after all. About everything.

He had to leave. He had to reset. He wasn't himself - he couldn't be. He'd been away too long and everything had changed.

Sherlock found that he'd left his boxers in the bathroom, so he quickly drew them on. Feeling ill, he re-entered Rose's bedroom to retrieve the rest of his clothes.

"Sherlock," Rose began, sliding from the bed and walking over to him.

"I have to go," he said quickly, without making eye contact.

Rose swiftly moved to his side. "Sherlock it's okay."

"It's not, Rose," he replied, his voice crackling under the strain, no longer strong and confident. It broke Rose's heart to see him like this.

"It really is fine. Sherlock, please." Rose placed a hand on Sherlock's arm as he made to take his shirt from its hanger. "Don't go."

Rose's eyes implored his. Sherlock swallowed hard. He'd never felt so disgusted with himself in all his life. He breathed deeply then said, "I hurt you. And it's not okay."

"But you didn't hurt me... it was just... different."

"It was primitive and base."

Rose stepped closer to Sherlock and he dropped his hand from the shirt. She gently caressed his cheek and replied, "It was spontaneous and passionate and that made it beautiful, Sherlock. It was amazing. You were amazing, and so fucking incredible."

Sherlock studied her. He didn't know what she was saying.  _That_ was beautiful? That brutish, wild, self-gratifying act?

When Sherlock continued to look remorseful Rose continued, "It was a different approach to sex. We were teasing one another, playing games with each other's emotions."

Sherlock blinked and straightened up, prompting Rose to drop her hand from his cheek. His voice was pitched low and flat as he remarked, "The last time somebody played games with my emotions I ended up leaping from a hospital rooftop."

Rose slid her arms around Sherlock's neck, and drew him closer. He bent his head, feeling completely contrite, but desperate to hear the words that would ease his guilt.

"But this is you and I," she said. "This is what we do. Tonight we had sex not in a bed, that's all."

"I thought I was too rough and I over-powered you."

"You took me by surprise. And it was completely consensual. I'm okay. You didn't hurt me." Rose caressed Sherlock's nape then kissed the corner of his downturned mouth. "Please stay. Come back to bed with me," she beckoned softly.

Sherlock nodded imperceptibly and Rose released him. She turned back to the bed and slid underneath the covers as Sherlock grabbed his pyjamas from the dresser. He pulled on his pyjama pants, feeling slightly lighter. He tried to concentrate on Rose's words. _You were amazing, and so fucking incredible._

Yes, he was feeling considerably lighter.

He pulled on his t-shirt and gave Rose a tiny smile as he slid into bed next to her. Silently he put out his arm, gesturing for Rose to snuggle into his chest. He intended hugging her for a good 15 minutes. He at least owed her that much.


	23. Maybe Not a Garrotter

**Chapter 23 - Maybe Not a Garrotter**

Rose was surprised to wake up still in Sherlock's embrace, so she lay there for a while, intermittently dozing and waking, but all the while feeling completely content. Eventually she couldn't stand the wait any longer. She had to interact with him immediately.

Sherlock stirred when Rose turned her head to look up at him.

"Uh, oh," she remarked in a sleepy voice. "I'm going to have to answer hours and hours of survey questions now."

Sherlock chuckled, instantly awake. "And engage in hours and hours of sex with me."

"Hours and hours? Don't flatter yourself, Mr Holmes," Rose teased.

The jibe was lost on Sherlock as he tapped Rose's arm and said, "Time to get up."

Rose moved from Sherlock's chest and instead curled around her pillow as Sherlock left the bed. "You do know it's Sunday, don't you?" she asked.

Sherlock shot back as he left the room, "Arbitrary names for the days of the week don't mean anything to me."

Rose shuffled into the warm spot Sherlock had vacated and closed her eyes once more.

"Unless they're relevant to a case," Sherlock continued a couple of minutes later upon his return from the bathroom as if there had been no pause at all in his remarks.

Rose gave a sleepy hum in response. Sherlock smiled at her crumpled form as he shed his pyjamas in favour of his suit. Of course he didn't notice her head was still on his chest when they'd been sleeping. He had been wearing his t-shirt, so he didn't feel her niggling strands of hair on his bare skin. Something to remember for next time.

Rose didn't realise she'd nodded off again until Sherlock sat on the bed next to her, fully dressed. He leant over her and whispered, "Rose, I'm going. This is your goodbye kiss."

He pressed his lips to the side of her face until Rose stirred, her mind replaying the words Sherlock had just spoken.

"Mmm. What?" she asked groggily, turning her head. "Have you had breakfast on the balcony already?"

Sherlock found himself drawn to Rose's lips, full of blood and warmed from sleep. He had no hesitation in proffering another goodbye kiss.

"You don't taste like tobacco today," she whispered once he'd pulled back.

"No, I've given up smoking. Something about having my clothes reek of five different types of tobacco may have something to do with it. I'll have to invest in a new packet of nicotine patches."

He stood up and grimaced at the stale odour on his coat. "Really must get these dry-cleaned," he said to himself.

He was about to leave when Rose rolled onto her back and asked, "Will you be coming over tonight? I'm working at the club until midnight. The Sunday night trade is always interesting."

"Yes, most probably," Sherlock replied tentatively, not ever really sure what the day could bring.

"Or I could come over to your place afterwards, for something different."

"Why would that be different?"

"Because we'll be at your place,"

Sherlock shrugged non-committedly. "Fine. I'll see you then."

He fished his gloves from his coat pocket as he left the room. Rose closed her eyes once more and fell back into a deep contented sleep.

Sherlock made his way through the living area, pausing by the door, while he drew on his gloves. He glanced at the small table nearest him, which reminded him about previously paying Rose for services rendered. Rose hadn't said anything about him not paying her for his visits this last week. He tried to avoid thinking about his brother and the cheque, but the question still remained: was this confirmation that Rose had accepted Mycroft's payment?

* * *

Rose was thankful that Baker Street was a closer destination from Shoreditch than her flat in Bayswater, so she was still able to get a ride from the club. Once again, she felt strange letting herself into 221 from the street entrance, and as she ascended the stairs, she shuddered at the memory of her last visit: her encounter with Sherlock's psychotic older brother. But Sherlock was no longer paying her, and they were still seeing each other with no underworld British Government figure making themselves or their threat known. Sherlock must have had a word with his brother, and now she was no longer being paid for her company. Surely this now constituted a relationship of sorts?

The flat was dark and cold and lifeless when she entered through the living room, lit only by two floor lamps on either side of the couch. Guessing that Sherlock had retired for the night, she silently made her way through the kitchen toward the back of the flat. She was surprised to find that his bedroom door was open, and disappointment rippled through her, when she concluded, just before finding his bed empty, that he wasn't home at all.

Rose was momentarily thrown. Should she leave? Stay? Phone him?

She decided that the last option was probably a bad idea, especially if Sherlock was on a case and silently stalking somebody. She didn't want to be the one to blow his cover by having his phone suddenly ring or vibrate. Although who would go out on a case and not prepare themselves for that eventuality? Rose was largely ignorant about the details of Sherlock's casework. That part of him remained a mystery to her.

She decided to stay and wait, as Sherlock would do at her place. And she thoroughly made herself at home. She had a cup of tea (black, though, as the milk in the fridge smelt off) and had a long, warm bath - a novelty because there was no bathtub in her flat - before sliding between Sherlock's crisp, white sheets completely naked.

There was a faint smell of Sherlock's cologne within the bedding and it wasn't long before Rose gave into her exhausted state, feeling content that Sherlock would join her eventually.

Sometime in the early hours, she felt the bed sink a little, then the smooth, but cold body of a naked Consulting Detective curl around her.

"This is a pleasant surprise," he murmured into her neck. "You feel very warm, like my own personal, living hot water bottle."

"Why am I a surprise?" Rose answered sleepily. "You invited me, remember."

"Yes, that's right. But to find you already prepared for my arrival is a nice surprise."

Rose felt content in Sherlock's firm embrace. "This is odd," she began, rousing herself. "Why are you being so affectionate? This isn't the Sherlock Holmes I know." She turned her head to look back at him. "Have I fallen asleep in the wrong flat?"

Sherlock chuckled into her ear. "You're nice and warm, that's why I'm embracing you. I've just spent five hours at Bart's morgue."

Rose rolled onto her back, and Sherlock moved away a fraction to accommodate her. She furrowed her brow and said, "That... doesn't sound very... good. You weren't cuddling cold corpses were you?"

"Funny, Rose," Sherlock murmured, nibbling Rose's ear until she sighed against him. "I've been helping to remove eyeballs," he continued enthusiastically, while he caressed Rose's arm, before taking in the smooth curves of her breasts. "Wonderful people, the deceased who donate their body parts to science. I was able to bring a pair of eyeballs home for my troubles. Matching set - optic nerves still attached."

Rose had hummed and closed her own eyes in satisfaction before suddenly opening them again and saying, "Sherlock, we really need to work on your pillow talk."

* * *

Sherlock had woken Rose gently after a few hours sleep, and told her to just lie back and enjoy herself while he did all the work. Rose had the feeling he was still troubled by their session the other night, and he wanted to get back to something more quiet and sedate and totally controlled by him. She didn't mind at all, though.  _Talented, clever man._

When they'd finished, he disappeared into his ensuite before coming back and launching into a detailed account of the evening before last - an evening spent playing Poker with the Clarence House Cannibal.

Rose's heart rate had increased and remained elevated when he described how one by one the other players all threw down their hands, eventually leaving only Sherlock and Tonya. The non-playing guests were then obligated to leave, as Tonya had strict rules against people observing.

"We had to up the ante. We both knew we had good hands. We started exchanging life stories as our cards lay face down on the table. I told her I used to frequent a brothel and she removed her shoes and showed me that she has postaxial polydactylism in both her feet. Twelve toes altogether, Rose. Constantly ridiculed about it her entire childhood. Gave her an obsessive view on superfluous body parts and brought about her need to consume them. Luckily I had a straight flush. I would've lost both my kidneys otherwise."

Sherlock had spoken so fast, with Rose reeling at Tonya's confession to needing to consume redundant body parts that she almost missed Sherlock's kidney remark.

"What? But you need at least one kidney."

"You should join in next month," Sherlock continued, ignoring Rose's comment. "I'll teach you. Perhaps you could write a thesis exploring Ms Small's damaged psyche. Fascinating woman."

Sherlock busied himself getting dressed while Rose remained in bed, trying to decide what part of Sherlock's ramblings disturbed her the most: that he was willing to risk his kidneys in a Poker game; that Ms Small really did have a predisposition to cannibalism; or that Sherlock's darkest confession to Tonya had been about his encounters with her in the brothel.

Sherlock was dressed in a russet shirt and his suit trousers and he remarked, as he drew on a beige dressing gown, "Busy day, Rose. The eyeballs beckon. Would you like a cup of tea?"

And with that, he swooped out of the bedroom.

Rose slowly got out of bed, random thoughts all jumbled together. As she refreshed herself in his bathroom, Rose reflected on Sherlock's comment about writing a paper on The Clarence House Cannibal. She realised she loved the study of Psychology, and she started to feel quite down that her life had veered off course. She felt that she really ought to take time out from running from one job to the next, even if it was just a mental exercise, and make concrete plans for her future.

Rose had the afternoon shift at the entertainment store, so there was no need for her to wake so early. Now that she had something else to think about, she decided to go home and do some research for extra courses she could take to get her career back on track.

As she started dressing, Sherlock flew into his room, in a bit of a state.

"Nicotine patches, nicotine patches," he muttered to himself.

"Oh, I saw a packet of those on the table out there," Rose volunteered.

Sherlock stopped, stared at her, then swiftly kissed Rose's cheek. "Thank you, Rose! It's so hard giving up smoking after two years of constantly having cigarettes abroad."

He dashed out again, leaving Rose to finished getting dressed. She thought that Sherlock seemed in good spirits, and she wondered if he had a case to work on.

When she joined Sherlock in the kitchen, she was stunned by the sight she found.

"Ah, Rose," Sherlock said upon seeing her. He immediately shut off the gas to a blowtorch he was holding. "Here's your tea."

Rose had stopped to gape at him. In one hand he held the blowtorch, and in the other, an eyeball delicately clasped between a large pair of tweezers. He was also wearing safety glasses.

"Um," said Rose, perplexed, not having ever witnessed Sherlock performing experiments on body parts before.

"Tea?" Sherlock reiterated, vaguely gesturing to a mug on the table in front of him using the eyeball's optic nerve.

Rose gulped. She had never wanted a cup of tea less in her life.

"I'll.. um... skip tea thanks, Sherlock," she said in a small voice, that almost cracked under the strain. "I have to … ah... go home and get ready for work."

"Oh," Sherlock replied in disappointment, as Rose readjusted her bag. His shoulders drooped slightly but then he seemed to snap out of his temporary sadness when he caught sight of the eyeball again. He straightened up again and said, "Okay. Goodbye hug?"

He held his arms out wide, blowtorch still in one hand, eyeball in the other. Rose's eyes widened at this vision of the detective-genius and said, slowly, "Ah, I don't want to contaminate your experiment there. I'm fine to go without a hug today." She glanced at the eyeball. It was staring back at her. "Okay, bye Sherlock."

The sound of the blowtorch re-igniting was the only response she received as she hurried out the door.

She hastened down the stairs and strode to the front entrance, pausing only when she heard a woman's voice, coming from a room at the very back. The landlady probably, Rose thought. There was a shriek of, "Oh my goodness!" and then a cackle of a laugh that seemed like it was never going to stop.

Rose shook her head. It seemed that 221 Baker Street was something resembling a mad house this morning. She exited onto the street and hastened toward the Baker Street tube entrance. The squeal of the brakes of a cab caused her to glance back along the street. Rose was startled to see John Watson alight from a taxi. Turning back quickly Rose walked faster. She didn't want John to recognise her and assume she'd come from Sherlock's flat.

 _Close call_ , she thought.  _Imagine what John would've thought if he had encountered me on the stairs, sneaking out of Sherlock's this morning._

Once on the tube, Rose's thoughts turned from Sherlock and John to her stalled career. She pushed aside the dark thoughts that always tried to seep through. These kinds of thoughts usually made her dismiss thinking about her career, and just live from day to day. This time, she shoved them aside. This time, she was taking control.

To assist her mind with taking control, Rose drew out her phone and started researching Forensic Psychology. Living around and being consumed by Sherlock gave her a small insight into what it would be like in this field, one she hadn't considered previously. Of course she would have to return to university studies - a Masters in Forensic Psychology followed by two years supervised practice. This she could do... sort of.

Rose sighed. Studying again. That would mean part-time study because she would still need to work, so the one year full-time course would turn into two years part-time. Money would become a problem _again_. Determined not to sell her body this time, and therefore her soul, Rose leant her head back against the wall of the carriage and made plans. While she switched trains, a half-formed idea had entered her mind, one that would kill two birds with one stone.

_Reconcile with my parents, thus insuring financial backing should I need it._

Christmas was less than two months away, a time during which Rose's mother was particularly emotional and sentimental. Naturally she would love to have her wayward daughter return to her in time for Christmas. So Rose had just over a month to start making contact - with her mother first. Her father would begrudgingly allow Rose back into their house during the weeks, then days leading up to Christmas, Rose was sure of it.

 _Besides_ , she thought, _it would be best for my own mental health to have the emotional support of family._

The throwaway remark Sherlock had made had given Rose a new vitality she hadn't felt for years. Sherlock was alive, she was going to have a respectful career once more, and she would feel the security of family again.

_Forensic psychology. Sherlock you genius. Perhaps I will write a paper about The Clarence House Cannibal after all._

* * *

Sherlock frantically paced around Rose's small living area, raking one hand through his hair. His chest felt constricted and the air in her flat smothered him with its stillness. The sound of keys rattling in the door gave him momentary relief from his impending meltdown.

"Rose!" he exclaimed, as she entered her flat.

Rose was startled by Sherlock's ashen face, not by the fact that he was already in her residence - that was a given these days, and practically a welcome sight as far as she was concerned. That he was standing in her living area still wearing his long coat, and not lolling about idly on her sofa, bare-footed and jacketless was worrisome.

"Sherlock what's wrong?" she immediately asked, dropping her bag and coat onto the nearest armchair.

Sherlock dropped himself dramatically into the chair next to the sofa and groaned, holding his head in his hands. "The worst possible thing has happened to me," he said without looking up, his voice strained and cracking toward the end.

Blood drained from Rose's face. Worse than a pretend suicide? She quickly sat down on her coffee table in front of Sherlock, and leant forward, placing a caring hand on his knee.

"Sherlock. Tell me."

Sherlock slowly raised his head. His eyes were red-rimmed and fearful. Rose swallowed hard.

"It's John," Sherlock replied, his voice barely audible.

Rose was thrown. She'd just seen John that morning, looking happy and healthy as he strode toward Sherlock's flat.

"What happened?" she asked in a small voice, thinking the doctor had been kidnapped once more, but this time the bonfire succeeded in doing away with Sherlock's friend.

Sherlock was silent for a moment before looking into Rose's eyes. "He's asked me to... to..." Sherlock sat up straighter, in an effort to compose himself. He looked down at the floor, and then swallowed. His voice was stronger as he tried again. "John's asked me to be his … best man. For his wedding."

Rose's eyes widened, and relief washed over her. "Best man?" she repeated, trying desperately to remain as straight-faced as Sherlock.

Sherlock nodded slowly and almost imperceptibly, the corners of his mouth curving ever downward in despair. Then panic seized the Consulting Detective once more and he jolted out of the chair, making a beeline for the kitchen.

"Clearly the man is deranged," he began, speaking at a manic pace as he started to roll a cigarette with the tobacco that had been left out on the kitchen bench. "I'm the most arrogant arsehole anyone could ever meet and he's chosen me as his best man. What does that say about his wife-to-be, hmm?"

Rose stood up, her head spinning with Sherlock's see-sawing emotions. And evidently he'd taken up smoking again, she observed.

"Well, you're his best friend, clearly," Rose said, keeping her voice soft and full of encouragement as she made her way over to Sherlock. "You've been friends for years. And you disappeared for two of them to save his life. And you saved him again just the other day. Not that saving someone's life qualifies you to be a best friend... I'm just saying..."

Rose trailed off as Sherlock fixed her with a penetrating look. "I let him grieve unnecessarily for two years. He physically assaulted me the day I returned and called me a  _cock_  and then threatened to kill me the day after I pulled him from the bonfire. Granted I put his life in danger with a bomb disguised as a train carriage, but as you can see, Rose, I'm hardly best friend material, let alone best man."

"Well, John counts you as his best friend, after everything that's happened," Rose added, as Sherlock brushed past her on his way out to the balcony through the dining room door.

Rose grabbed her coat and followed him outside. He had already lit up and sat in his now familiar pose with his legs resting on the railing of her balcony.

Rose reiterated to Sherlock his friendship status with John, while the great Consulting Detective only sighed, tutted and rolled his eyes in turn.

"You just need some time to get used to the idea," Rose offered at last.

Sherlock slowly turned to her and forcefully exhaled his cigarette smoke before saying, "That's all I've been doing since this morning when John first came around." He pointed to his temple and said, "Do you think at the rate my superior mind can process thoughts that a few hours worth of  _getting used to the idea_  doesn't equate to years and years of philosophical musings for the simple-minded?"

Rose bit her bottom lip in an effort to refrain from laughing. "When's the wedding?" she asked, in an effort to shift the focus of the conversation slightly.

"May. A spring wedding."

"Well, that's... still six months away." Rose stood up and gave Sherlock a reassuring smile. "You'll be practically revelling in the idea by then. I'm going inside to make myself an omelette. Do you want anything?"

"I've lost my appetite," Sherlock muttered darkly.

* * *

When Sherlock entered the bedroom with Rose's laptop tucked under his arm, Rose felt deflated.

"I thought we weren't doing that anymore," she stated, a little too harshly.

"I gave you the weekend off. As it's Monday, I thought we could get back to business."

Rose bit her tongue. The man had been feeling down all evening. He had even silently watched telly while Rose sifted through university websites on her laptop before she finally decided on the London Metropolitan University. Nice and close. She concluded that Sherlock wasn't even engaged in watching  _Regency Road_. His mind was obviously elsewhere.

She decided to go along with his questionnaire tonight since it seemed to make him happy. She may even carefully consider her answers this time.

Sherlock settled into bed, having deposited the computer onto the bedside table. He pulled open the drawer and then asked Rose, "Do you want to choose, or should I?"

"It's your turn, I think," she replied pleasantly.

Sherlock rummaged inside the drawer, making rather a big deal out of shuffling the condom packets about. Rose found it hard to keep a straight face, so she sat up and pretended she needed to fluff out her pillow.

After Sherlock had placed the randomly selected condom onto the bedside table, he turned onto his side, facing Rose. This was one of Rose's favourite moments: when Sherlock Holmes became _cuddly Sherlock_. Even for just a few minutes.

He kissed her gently at first, and an ache grew inside her until she had to exercise her own self-restraint, willing to make every sensation last longer. He could be so tender when he wanted to be, giving him a boyish sweetness that Rose adored. He drew her in closer, and she could feel his own burgeoning arousal hard against her. His lips left hers and drifted along her neck, raking over her throat, rippling a new hunger through her. Rose's breath shuddered as Sherlock moved lower. His hands ran over her until she trembled and sighed against his touch, impatient for more.

Then suddenly he wasn't there anymore.

He was off the bed and over by the wardrobe while Rose's eyes fluttered open. She felt dazed and definitely not sated.

"Sherlock?"

"Rose, I don't have time for this," Sherlock replied, pulling his shirt from its hanger and hastily dressing.

"What's wrong?" Rose asked, sitting up in a world of confusion.

Sherlock fixed Rose with look that indicated his astonishment at her ignorance. With gravity weighing down his voice, he informed her, "I have a wedding to plan."

.

 


	24. You Cater to the Whims of the Pathetic

**Chapter 24 - You Cater to the Whims of the Pathetic**

Rose was out of the bed in an instant.

"Sherlock Holmes, you get back into that bed right now!"

Sherlock paused before he had even fastened any of his buttons. The look on Rose's face had scared him into not moving a solitary muscle. She stepped closer to him and seized him by his shirt.

"I've taught you everything you know about how to please a woman—"

"Not every—" Sherlock began in protest.

"Shut it!" Rose commanded, her eyes flashing a serious warning. "And this is no way to treat a woman. You don't just stop mid-foreplay with no intention of returning. You just don't!"

Sherlock opened his mouth to deliver a biting retort, but he had nothing. He knew he was in the wrong and he had made Rose very upset with him.

And besides, he still had a full erection. Who was he kidding?

* * *

Rose was looking forward to spending an evening with Sherlock in Baker Street. Although she knew he would be preoccupied with whatever planning he felt he had to do for the wedding that was not his own, she was still pleased he'd thought to invite her around. He did end up staying the night at her place, and he finished having sex with her to her satisfaction. He appeared less inclined to dash off home after his own climax, and he had held her for what seemed like a very precise three minutes before demanding answers to his damnable questionnaire. In all, quite a routine night for them both.

He left early the next morning, before Rose had finished getting ready for work, but not without giving her his obligatory goodbye kiss.

After an interminable day spent in the back office of the entertainment store, Rose was looking forward to a long soak in Sherlock's bathtub. But first she had to return home to pack a few things so she could leave for work directly from Baker Street the next morning. Her head was filled with a list of items to pick up as she walked toward the tube station, only half-registering a female voice calling out as she passed by a bus stop.

It took a moment before Rose realised that it was she who was being called. She looked around, and a young woman's face lit up in response.

"Shell! I thought it was ya!" she said, excitedly hastening over to Rose.

A small part of Rose died inside when she recognised an ex co-worker from her days in the Lyceum Street brothel. Her name was Chantal, and that probably wasn't her real name any more than Rose's name was Shelley.

Rose did her best to return the young woman's smile, before she was enveloped in a tight embrace, which was followed by a kiss on the cheek.

"Watchya been upta? Ya look..." The young prostitute's face took on a puzzled expression as she eyed Rose's conservative attire, the latter's ensemble in stark contrast to the plunging neckline and tight bright red trousers several sizes too small that Chantal herself wore underneath an overcoat.

"Like an officer worker?" Rose finished, raising an eyebrow.

"Yeah!" Chantal agreed, laughing with the confidence of someone who'd just shared a private joke.

"I _do_ work in an office," Rose responded with a straight face.

Chantal's mouth formed a small "o", before a pained expression replaced it.

"What happened to ya?" she asked, looking horrified that somehow Rose had fallen on hard times.

Rose shrugged, while saying, "I... had to leave London for a while, and I needed to finish my studies."

She'd bent the truth just a little, but why should she tell her life story to someone who didn't even know her real name?

"Oh, Shells," Chantal lamented, scanning Rose from head to toe, and then her face immediately brightened as she remembered her own good fortune. "You'll never guess what I'm doin' now!"

Rose didn't really need this conversation, nor this encounter. One thing about moving on and out of the sex industry was thinking you'd somehow survived something. She was able to interrupt Chantal long enough to suggest they go have coffee. Moving the conversation from the busy street seemed like the best option, and Rose couldn't bring herself to just walk away from her former co-worker. She knew from working in the industry that some of the girls hardly ever got spoken to like a human being, and she didn't want to be the one to dismiss any of them.

Rose slowly stirred her coffee while Chantal eagerly pointed out the features of her new website from an iPad. Her long manicured fingers had no trouble navigating the touch screen, as she said, "And some of them let me watch them having a wank while they're watching me. Webcaming is so lucrative. You get tips whenever you do stuff they type in. You should try it!"

Rose smiled to herself at the idea of getting Sherlock to watch her in Leinster Gardens while he masturbated from the privacy of his bedroom in Baker Street. Somehow she couldn't see him being too keen on the idea of Rose becoming a web cam girl. Besides, they'd never had that kind of relationship.

Chantal interrupted Rose's quiet musings when she navigated to a new page that displayed her 'tour dates', and she had a sudden thought.

"Shell! What are you doing this weekend?"

Rose wanted to say she was busy all weekend, spending time with her boyfriend or something, but her hesitancy only made Chantal sit up and clap her hands in delight.

"You can join me on the London leg of my tour!"

Rose knew what kind of _tour_ Chantal was referring to. With the spread of the red light district onto the net it brought new and interesting opportunities for workers in the industry. Cam girls who liked to think they weren't prostitutes were popping up all over the net. But for the more adventurous, you could go as far as booking hotels around the U.K. and advertising your dates on a web page so punters could book you for an old-fashioned one-on-one romp in their local area.

"I'm always nervous for m'safety doing this by meself. Last year, I had a friend come with me, but she was crap and kept worrying over us getting done for running a brothel since there were two of us. I know you're good, and we could share expenses. How about it, Shell?"

Rose's stomach roiled at the prospect, but she was able to maintain her composure. She told Chantal that she had to work all weekend at the strip club, and didn't correct Chantal when she commented that she'd heard somewhere that Shelley was now a stripper.

Rose asked how Mark's and Cynthia's brothel was, and Chantal informed her that the couple had separated. Cynthia was now running things with less girls and had moved out of the house in Lyceum Street. She'd taken to booking serviced apartments so they could operate more of a mobile brothel to stay ahead of the police. The process of taking in clients was more streamlined and the premises were luxurious compared to the residence in North London.

With the coffee all consumed and the conversation moving onto Chantal basically showing Rose her photo gallery, Rose decided it was time to leave. She was also feeling self-conscious that some of the other customers could see Chantal's iPad screen, and a lot of the photos on it were quite explicit. Twice she encouraged the young prostitute to lay the iPad flat on the table, but after a few minutes, Chantal would forget again and lift it up in her enthusiasm to show Rose other photos of herself posing in new positions wearing little or no lingerie.

Rose looked around the café uneasily. The threat from Sherlock's brother was constantly in the back of her mind, and she didn't know exactly what kind of influence Sherlock had over his older sibling and if he had managed to dissuade the government official from exposing Rose's past career to all and sundry. With that in mind, she felt it wouldn't do to be sitting in a coffee shop, poring over a prostitute's website.

She made excuses to Chantal about needing to get home and finish an assignment. She felt extremely guilty that Chantal was disappointed that Rose had to go. Rose reluctantly accepted the young woman's business card and agreed to give her a call should she change her mind about accompanying her on the upcoming weekend sex tour.

Once Rose was home, she set about packing a bag to take to Baker Street. While checking her handbag for her lip gloss, she found that Chantal's business card had fallen inside the open envelope that contained the £800 she was intending to return to Sherlock. She quickly pulled the card out and slipped it behind the credit card in her purse, but not before noting that Chantal's occupation was listed as _Model/Dancer._

A sickening horror rippled through Rose, as her mind connected Chantal's true profession with the reason behind Sherlock paying her £400 on two consecutive occasions over a week ago. She could call herself his friend or companion, but like Chantal, if you get paid for having sex with someone, you're a fucking prostitute, regardless of what you put on your business card. Sherlock had paid her and she had kept the money. She was still a whore.

Rose couldn't face going to his flat just yet. She felt ill, and images of Chantal's photo gallery kept flashing through her mind along with her own memories of performing degrading acts for money - not with Sherlock. Definitely not with Sherlock. He had been the perfect gentleman. She had always felt in control at the brothel with all her clients, and at Baker Street with Sherlock, but her other single client - the one she'd taken on after discovering through Sherlock that the escort business was far more lucrative - had paid generously for a whole lot more.

And she had forced herself to submit to his humiliating demands again upon returning to London after hearing of Sherlock's 'suicide'. The sick fuck paid well, that was her motivation, and she desperately needed the money at the time, but the whole ordeal left her feeling disgusted with herself. Why had meeting up with Chantal put the image of that repulsive man in her head again? She'd not thought about him for two years.

Rose had an urgent desire to cleanse herself and a long bath at Sherlock's would've been welcome, but she couldn't go there just yet. She didn't want to be around someone as wonderful as Sherlock Holmes while her thoughts were clouded with the degrading acts she had performed at the bidding of that horrid man.

Rose stripped and entered her bathroom, taking a longer than usual amount of time in the shower, with the water as hot as she could bear it. Eventually, the water threatened to run cold and it was only then that she decided she was as clean as she was going to be. She had shed one or two tears in the shower as well, feeling completely helpless and alone, before shutting out the memory and the emotions that accompanied it with great effort.

Donning her dressing gown and fixing a salad for dinner, Rose tried to focus on her stalled career in Psychology. She sat down at her computer several times but felt too restless to concentrate. She was far too agitated to get dressed and leave for Baker Street. She wondered if she should have a quick toke to calm herself down before seeing Sherlock. She had second thoughts, imagining that the Consulting Detective would disapprove of her visiting his place while stoned.

Rose sighed at her own indecision then jumped out of her chair when she heard the sound of her front door being unlocked.

"John has no idea," Sherlock was saying as he entered. He appeared flustered and barely looked at Rose as he shed his coat and hung it up by the door.

Rose rushed at him, and clung to him as he automatically hugged her. But he was still too preoccupied in his own thoughts to notice anything out of the ordinary.

"He said I'm not to do anything at all about planning the wedding until after Christmas. Not even allowed to mention it. He asks me to be his best man then puts a wedding preparation ban in place. I think he's just overwhelmed. I presented him with a fairly comprehensive checklist of things that needed to be done... oh, hello, Rose."

Sherlock paused to kiss Rose on her cheek, and then took off his jacket once Rose had released him.

"Some places are booked out a year in advance. I don't think he's taken that into consideration."

Sherlock paced around the living area while Rose busied herself cleaning up her dinner dishes.

"There's the flowers to order, and catering, although that would depend on the venue. Mary's no better. _It'll all be fine, Sherlock,_ " he added in a mock female voice. "And then there's the cake..."

Rose let Sherlock continue his one-sided conversation. She nodded now and then and hummed in agreement whenever he threw a glance in her direction.

"… so I couldn't stay home waiting for you; what was taking you so long anyway? I need a shower."

Sherlock disappeared into the bathroom without waiting for a response from Rose. She didn't mind anyway; she was glad of the distraction that Sherlock's presence brought.

She was once again seated at her computer when he came dashing out of the bathroom with a towel clinging to his hips.

"Your hot water didn't last very long. Don't like that soap; makes my skin feel itchy."

And he disappeared into the bedroom carrying his shirt and trousers. She could hear him opening and closing wardrobe doors as he hung up his clothes. He eventually emerged wearing a blue silk dressing gown over his pyjamas.

"You've brought your dressing gown here as well," Rose observed.

Sherlock glanced down at it as if seeing it for the first time. He gave a nod in satisfaction, as he continued over to Rose's sofa.

"There's some salad left in the fridge if you're hungry," Rose said as Sherlock flopped onto the sofa.

"Don't eat when I'm working," Sherlock intoned, picking up the remote control and pointing it at Rose's telly.

Rose regarded Sherlock's reclined posture with some amusement. "Are you working?"

Sherlock shot Rose a look in irritation. "I'm planning John's wedding. Haven't you been listening?"

Rose's eyebrows shot up in disbelief as Sherlock turned his attention to the small screen. Clicking the remote to surf through the channels, he muttered, "Rubbish, rubbish, crap, crap, oh what's this? Rubbish."

Rose resumed her studying of the prerequisites required to enrol in Forensic Psychology while Sherlock silently - for the most part - watched television. His tutts and comments on the programmes moved to the background as Rose's thoughts shifted once more to her past.

She hadn't noticed how much time had elapsed before Sherlock was asking, "What's wrong?"

Rose looked over at Sherlock in surprise. She hadn't noticed that he'd muted the sound of the ads on the telly and was looking at her with his brow furrowed and his mouth downturned. He was still lying comfortably on her sofa, one arm hanging limply off the couch as he clutched the remote control, and his other arm positioned casually behind his head.

He continued speaking as if to enlighten Rose as to why he was concerned. "I was telling you that I've already worked out the mystery. This U.S. Marshal is obviously the mental patient and is having fantasies and delusions about solving the case of the missing girl. I solved it in the first ten minutes."

Rose was immediately roused from her reverie and glanced at the TV screen to see that the movie had resumed.

"Oh, I've seen this one. You're right. The whole thing's a set up to get him to confront his -"

"Shh, Rose!" Sherlock interrupted her, looking aghast. "You're ruining it for me!" And he unmuted the telly and continued watching the movie with an annoyed expression marring his features, his concern for Rose's reticence forgotten.

Rose stood up and made her way over to Sherlock. Watching a movie with him may be the perfect antidote to staring into space feeling sorry for herself, she thought.

"Can you make room for me?" she asked tentatively, still unsure if Sherlock could be the cuddling type on occasions other than just before and just after sex.

Sherlock tutted and tried to look around Rose in order to keep his eyes on the telly, but at the same time he shuffled to the edge of the sofa and moved his arm out from underneath his head indicating that she lie on that side of him. Rose lay down and cuddled in close to Sherlock, resting her head on his chest as he held her to him. She felt quite content and thought she would fall asleep in minutes if she'd just let go of her stressful thoughts. She eventually closed her eyes when Sherlock distractedly brushed her hair away from her face, and continued to run his fingers through it.

She sighed sleepily but was then jolted from her half-slumber by Sherlock tutting and throwing the remote down onto the coffee table.

"It's all so obvious now. Every gesture, every intention. Completely ruined it for me."

Rose chuckled and turned her head to look up at the pouting detective. His fingers were still threaded through her hair as he returned her gaze.

"Do you often ruin movies for yourself?" she asked.

"I don't usually watch movies. Pointless. John made me watch one once. He immediately regretted it, and never insisted on it again."

Rose laughed lightly then shifted upwards to plant a kiss on Sherlock's cheek. When she pulled away again, she found that he was carefully studying her through narrow eyes.

"You're in a better mood," he commented. "So who did you run into today?"

"What makes you think I ran into somebody today?"

Sherlock took a sharp intake of breath before gesturing to the front door. He spoke quickly, almost in a flat monotone.

"When I walked in this evening you hastily wiped away a solitary tear, then flung yourself at me to receive my hug. You held your arms around me just that little bit tighter and a tad longer than usual, while you recomposed yourself. Then you busied yourself around your flat as if I'd interrupted your chores. You were being uncharacteristically industrious, washing the dishes, putting clothes in the dryer - you rarely use the dryer, too expensive to run - when clearly you'd been sitting at the dining table staring vacantly at the same screen for hours.

"The timestamp on that webpage hasn't changed, which indicates poor programming on the part of the web developer and the fact that you haven't navigated away from it. Two - no - _three_ cups of tea, all unfinished," he said, indicating the used teabags resting on the countertop in the kitchen, "so you kept making yourself new ones where they remained untouched and became cold. You don't usually drink that much tea. So your thoughts were elsewhere.

"Spur of the moment affection towards me, and trying to investigate new options for your future in the Psychology industry indicated by that website still on your screen, both lead me to conclude that you were reflecting on your time working in the brothel and therefore you encountered someone today that reminded you that you were once a prostitute. But you regret throwing away the last two years of your life. At first you blamed me and my fake suicide, but then you felt guilty about what I must have went through, hence the prolonged hug when I walked in. Am I right?"

Rose realised she'd been holding her breath the entire time Sherlock was speaking and she quickly inhaled, before breathing out unsteadily. Her eyes prickled with tears.

"Yes," she said finally.

Sherlock remained curiously silent; he didn't sneer or look jubilant. He continued to gaze at Rose allowing her to compose her thoughts.

"I bumped into Chantal, another worker from the brothel. She's lovely actually, and doing really well for herself, I guess."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows slightly, demonstrating only a minor interest, before the flicker of the telly caught his eye once more.

"Shh, Rose. It's back on."

He grabbed the remote control from the coffee table and returned the volume to its normal level. Rose sighed and lay her head back down onto Sherlock's chest. Sherlock had untangled his fingers from Rose's hair but he began caressing her arm with his thumb instead.

At the next commercial break, Rose again turned to look up at Sherlock.

"Do you still think of me as a prostitute?"

Her eyes were large and glistened with emotion. She had to know what his thoughts were now that there was no longer payment involved, and she needed reassurances, from someone who also knew of her past, that being a sex worker was no longer her sole identity.

The question caught Sherlock by surprise, although his composure didn't show it. He waited a beat before answering, not out of the careful consideration of his words, but because he really was trying to determine what label he'd affixed to Rose these days.

"I think of you as..."

He didn't regard Rose in the same light as he had two years ago. She was someone he wanted to be around since his return, for her own sake, not for the services she once offered. He felt he needed her for... something undefinable - companionship most likely. Whenever he thought about her and felt the compulsion to see her he would just think of her as...

"...Rose. Just Rose."

Rose's eyes stung with tears, but she fought to keep them at bay. She sat up, and awkwardly climbed over Sherlock and from the sofa. Sherlock's eyes followed her with curious interest.

"Just a minute," she said.

Rose walked over to the side table nearest the armchair opposite and rummaged through her handbag. She drew out the white envelope that she'd kept forgetting about and brought it back to Sherlock.

"This is yours," she said, sitting down on the coffee table in front of him and holding out the envelope.

Sherlock glanced at the partially opened packet and could see the notes contained within. He didn't make a move to accept it.

"Why?" he asked.

"I never wanted payment from you the first night you came back, or any other night after that. I don't do that any more. I told you that."

She offered it to him but Sherlock waved it away.

"I don't need it. Why don't you keep it? Buy more tobacco; I've used all of yours. And soap, too. I don't like the coconut stuff. Then there's the utilities - the hot water..."

Sherlock had sat up slowly as he spoke. Something didn't compute here. If she _didn't do that any more_ and wouldn't accept payment, then what was the £10,000 cheque from Mycroft all about?

But Rose was still speaking. "...I don't want the money that was intended as payment for sex, or companionship, or whatever."

Sherlock knew he needed to tread carefully here, rather than just accuse her outright of either lying or holding that occupation from which she was trying so desperately to disassociate herself.

"Just leave it, Rose," he said, sounding defeated. He took the envelope from her and lightly tossed it onto the table next to her. "I'll buy the tobacco then. And soap. I prefer a more natural scent. You don't mind, do you?" He tried to smile to alleviate the tension a little before launching into what he hoped sounded like a subject change, but to him, it was really the crux of the matter. "My brother's cheque. What did you do with it?"

Rose furrowed her brow at the mention of Sherlock's over-bearing sibling. "I burnt it."

Sherlock nodded imperceptibly, his mind a jumble of thoughts. If Mycroft offered her money to spy on, have sex with, or give therapy to Sherlock, and she hadn't accepted, what were the consequences? Nothing, he surmised, until Rose spoke again.

"Did you talk to him? Is he going to be okay with that?"

She looked distressed, so Sherlock knew he'd definitely missed something.

"I told him not to speak to you again," he replied. It was the truth and if he had made the correct assumption all along, that should've be the end of it, he thought.

But he hadn't and it wasn't, judging by the even more alarming expression Rose now wore.

"He could still tell everyone about me, and..." Rose struggled to remember what it was Mycroft had implied the Security Services could do to her.

Sherlock set his jaw firmly. So the interfering, uptight, busy body had _threatened_ her to do his bidding? _He could still tell_ _everyone about me..._ Sherlock swiftly concluded that Mycroft had threatened to expose her as a prostitute to all who knew her in her present life. But despite all of his control freakiness, his brother was hardly the type to force a woman into sexual slavery. He may have tried to bribe John Watson into spying on Sherlock, but Mycroft was relatively fine when the doctor declined his offer. Rose was clearly fearful. This still didn't add up, and Sherlock was feeling quite disconcerted that it wasn't all as clear cut as he'd first assumed.

He spoke softly to Rose, now choosing his words ever so carefully. "Mycroft was pretty vague to me about his offer to you. I'll double check he's got the message."

Sherlock stood up and looked about the room for his jacket. "Have you seen my phone?"

Rose twisted around, reaching behind her to retrieve Sherlock's phone for him. "What if it's too late?" she asked in a small voice, standing up also as she handed him the phone.

"Leave everything to me," he said in an even voice. He navigated through his contacts until he came to the pompous arse's details. With his thumb hovering over the dial key, Sherlock tried to keep his voice light and casual as he asked Rose, "What exactly was his threat as you understand it?"

Rose crossed her arms defensively. "He... he... um..." She swallowed while rearranging her thoughts. "As well as bribing me with the cheque, he said if I kept seeing you he'd tell my parents, and everyone else that I was a prostitute, and..."

Sherlock's head reeled at this significant revelation. Bribed her to _stay away from him?_

Rose continued, "And he'd tell Scotland Yard that I was trying to entrap you..."

 _Bastard,_ thought Sherlock, clenching his jaw.

"...and something about the Security Services finding something on my computer."

Sherlock tapped Dial with his thumb. He brought the phone up to his ear, and reached out to rub Rose's arm reassuringly, all the while being bombarded with random thoughts.

 _I still want to see you_ , she'd said outside the strip club. She had risked being exposed and even prosecution by the Met - although that accusation was laughable - in order to defy Mycroft's order, and Sherlock had dismissed the whole incident as being one of Mycroft's silly little power plays. She wanted to keep seeing him and hadn't been motivated to do so for financial reasons.

_You're so nice. I really like you._

Sherlock pushed aside all confusing thoughts as his brother answered the phone with his usual tired greeting.

Sherlock wasted no time getting down to business. He was seething by this stage, but he was able to maintain a steadiness to his voice.

"I trust you've received the message loud and clear by now that Rose is not accepting your generous offer?"

He heard Mycroft sigh deeply into the phone. Rose tensed as she stood in front of him, so Sherlock dropped the arm that held the phone and reached out to her with his other hand. Cupping the nape of her neck, he leant his forehead against hers and spoke in a low voice to her. "It will be fine. I'll fix this."

He then kissed her on the forehead and stepped away from her, bringing his phone back up to his ear. Mycroft was just finishing a tiny monologue on addictive behaviour.

"Let me remind you, brother dear," Sherlock began in a soothing voice, "... that I've been away for two years, a time during which our mother has been worried sick. If she hears that you're attempting to ruin any chance I have of leading some semblance of a normal life, she will be most upset. Again. And it will be all your fault. Again."

Rose stood astounded, watching Sherlock listening to his brother's protests. Really, Rose thought, this man who can bend the British Security Services to his whims is afraid of upsetting his mother? What kind of woman was _she_?

Sherlock had silently hung up on his brother and smiled resignedly at Rose. His heart was thumping awkwardly as he didn't know how to process all of the data he now held in his mind. But Rose didn't know about his inner torments as she rushed at him. She wound her arms around his neck and held him tightly. Sherlock embraced her in return, trying to make sense of it all, and silently chastising himself for getting the whole Mycroft interference thing wrong.

"Okay, Rose," he said, gently patting her on the back. "The show's back on. I want to see if I'm right about the U.S. Marshal."

"You _are_ right," Rose responded as Sherlock returned to the sofa. "The missing woman is actually..."

"Shh, Rose! Don't spoil it!"

Rose noted that Sherlock had made room for her on the sofa again, so she lay back down next to him, having no intention of watching the movie herself. Once more she found Sherlock's fingers in her hair and she closed her eyes, enjoying his gentle touch.

Sherlock only half-watched the telly as scene after scene verified his theory thus rendering the plot completely dull and uninteresting. His mind was still on Rose and her motivations. The money had tainted things a bit, he had thought, but now that was out of the equation. In fact, it had always been out of the equation, since his return. She simply liked his company, a notion that left Sherlock feeling bewildered. But he was comforted by the fact that he didn't have to feel alone - that she hadn't been employed to hang around him and keep him in check. And he liked Rose, he really did. What did that mean, exactly?

Sherlock turned his focus from the screen for a moment and pressed his lips to the top of Rose's head. Keeping them there, he felt a sudden unfamiliar pressure in his chest, and a strange churning in his gut.

Rose felt Sherlock's gesture and was immediately warmed by it. The danger of Mycroft's threat no longer weighed heavily on her mind, and she now felt safe and secure in Sherlock's arms, a feeling she hadn't experienced in the arms of a man in a very long time.

And there was another emotion she hadn't felt in an age:

_The feeling of being loved._


	25. This Morally Compromised World

**Chapter 25 - This Morally Compromised World**

Sherlock clicked the remote one final time and the television blackened. Rose's weight on his chest had increased minutely in the last half hour, so he knew her to be asleep. Should he wake her, or should they sleep there? The pain in the crook of Sherlock's neck answered the question for him.

He whispered her name and she stirred lightly but didn't wake. Sherlock tried to shuffle out from underneath her which had the better effect of waking her up. Rose sat up and rubbed at her face. Her dressing gown had become loosened, so she held it around herself as she looked back at Sherlock.

"You fell asleep," he said unnecessarily as he sat up as well.

"Mmm," Rose responded sleepily. "Were you right about the movie?"

"Of course I was," Sherlock answered, swinging his legs to the ground and standing up.

He held out a hand for Rose, which she took, and she stood up, stopping in front of him. Entwining her arms around his neck, she hugged him close.

"Thank you," she whispered against his chest.

Sherlock rubbed Rose's back, unsure of what exactly she was thanking him for.

* * *

Sherlock sat in his armchair, his fingertips steepled to his chin, a horrible, wrenching ache sitting with him. What had he done wrong? His mind replayed that night over and over. He could only conclude that it was as Rose had stated—bumping into her ex-coworker from the brothel had triggered unpleasant memories of working as a prostitute. But why was  _he_  now being punished? It had been three days since he'd left Rose, lying dishevelled and crumpled underneath her quilt, where she had stayed, largely immobile, for an entire day.

Was she ever going to let him see her again?

* * *

Rose emerged from the Baker Street tube station and paused once she'd reached the pavement. Gazing along the length of the street, she drew in a breath to steady herself, and momentarily closed her eyes. With a renewed determination, she continued along the street until she reached number 221.

 _I at least owe him a better explanation than the one I gave him_ , she thought resignedly, before retrieving the key to the front door from her coat pocket.

Rose hoped that Sherlock had no visitors, specifically of the John Watson variety. She had already decided that she had every right to visit Sherlock, and hang what anyone thought of her. She demanded respect these days, regardless of her past occupation. But her previous life was the sole reason for her breakdown wasn't it?

When Sherlock had whispered sweet things about being more comfortable in bed, and Rose had kissed him back, she felt her stupid dressing gown gap open again because she hadn't fastened it properly earlier. Sherlock's lips grazed her neck as his hand softly brushed one breast before he drew her in tightly. Normally such a gesture would make Rose shudder with desire, but this time she was repulsed at his touch. Thoughts of clients pulling open her dressing gown to devour her for their own lascivious needs filled her mind and made her skin crawl. She abruptly pulled away from Sherlock, and with a sob, hastened to her bedroom, leaving the poor man standing bewildered in her living area.

He'd called after her, but she had completely come undone. It wasn't his fault, and it wasn't fair on him, but she couldn't stymy the flood of tears nor dismiss the overwhelming sense of despair and self-loathing.

She heard him enter the room; he even said he was sorry, his voice cracking under the strain, and he asked her if she wanted him to leave. He didn't even ask why she had reacted the way she did. If was as if he knew. Of course he  _knew_ ; he was Sherlock Holmes. All the data was there.

Rose was able to sob out a 'No,' so Sherlock lay down on the bed next to her and said not a word. Eventually Rose rolled over to cuddle into Sherlock's chest. He placed one arm around her, staying in the one position for the entire night, not speaking and not moving. Rose had moved back to her side of the bed in the early hours, allowing Sherlock to rise and dress as was his usual routine.

He called to her softly but Rose didn't want to rouse herself.

"Are you working today?" he asked in a low voice.

"I'm going in late," she croaked, for her own voice was hoarse from crying.

"I'll see you later then," Sherlock said gently, but Rose stayed hidden underneath the covers and didn't reply. Some part of her wished Sherlock had just pulled the quilt away from her and kissed her goodbye anyway, but when she heard the front door latch shut, she dissolved into tears again.

Sherlock had returned that evening, figuring she would have finished work by then, to find that she hadn't gone in at all. She'd called in sick and had remained in bed for the better part of the day, leaving only to use the bathroom and fetch herself a drink of water.

"I can't see you for a while," she'd said to him in a half-whisper, and not making eye contact. "Just give me a few days, okay? I'll ring you."

Rose spent the following day staring at her list of contacts for counselling services she kept with her for her shifts at the crisis centre. She couldn't decide who to ring. She had on occasion spoken to most of the operators through her volunteer work, and she wanted to avoid speaking with anyone she knew.

Rose had self-diagnosed a delayed reaction to her last paid sexual encounter, something akin to being a victim of sexual assault. She had to talk to someone about it, she knew that. Talking to herself was not an option; she had an alternating crying/laughing session about that notion. She finally decided to call in on Tracey Yale, her immediate supervisor at the crisis centre. She knew when Tracey was rostered on, the following evening, so she stayed at home the next day as well crying a little less, but still feeling like a train wreck all the same.

Rose confided in Tracey her previous occupation and the reaction she experienced after bumping into Chantal, and with Sherlock—not mentioning any names, of course. Tracey was surprised at first, but she found the woman quickly adopted her professional persona, and she was able to recommend a couple of counsellors that Rose didn't know. Just talking to Tracey was an enormous weight off her shoulders, and she made a mental note to ring the counsellors the very next day. But first she wanted to let Sherlock know what she was going through, so she set out for Baker Street the next morning before work.

She couldn't hear any noises coming from Sherlock's flat as she ascended the stairs and Rose had the sinking feeling that Sherlock wasn't even in. When she stepped onto the landing, she paused before stepping over the threshold.

Sherlock looked up, startled to see her. He was standing by his living room table, pulling on his long overcoat.

"Rose," he said, on an exhale.

"Are you just about to leave?"

Sherlock was slightly flustered at the sight of her—of Rose, who was the sole occupant of his thoughts of late.

"No, nowhere of importance." He blinked, then hastened over to the door. "Come in," he said, gesturing to the living area, then closing the door behind her.

Sherlock's heart began to hammer in his chest. The ill feeling that had been a constant companion over the last two days intensified on seeing her.

"Tea?" he forced himself to say in a pleasant tone.

"No... I... um, no thank you. I won't stay long."

Sherlock's stomach churned in disappointment, but he saw with relief that Rose was slipping off her coat. She placed her bag on the coffee table with her coat on top of it, then asked him if they could sit for a moment. Sherlock nodded imperceptibly, then shrugged off his own coat and draped it over a chair. He joined Rose on the sofa, the feeling of unease sitting with him, and he laced his fingers together defensively. He tried to steel himself for the worst. He didn't know what the worst was, because he didn't know exactly what he had wanted, and why he had missed her so intensely over the last couple of days.

Rose inhaled deeply, then clasped her hands together in her lap. "I just wanted to say that I'm sorry for withdrawing from you like that. I was going through something..." She paused to recompose herself. "I _am_ going through something and I just need some time to process it."

"Process what?"

Rose studied Sherlock's face. He looked so contrite, so at fault for what she was going through that she felt compelled to reach out and touch his cheek. "It's nothing to do with you, Sherlock," she said, gently caressing his face with her thumb.

"I made you feel like a prostitute again," he said quickly and in a monotone, regret etched on his fine porcelain features.

Rose held her hand against his face for a few seconds longer. "You didn't make me feel anything. I'm responsible for my own feelings." She returned her hand to her lap and shrugged a little. "It was just a gesture. Just a stupid thing and it triggered a memory of time in my life I've been trying so hard to forget." She tried to make light of the situation with a half-smile. "If it wasn't you, it would've been a comment someone else made, or a stern look by a complete stranger in the street."

Sherlock's brow furrowed in confusion. "I don't understand."

 _He just thinks it's the prostitute thing, and in a way that's what started it,_  Rose thought. But it went much deeper than that and she had to let him know otherwise he was going to beat himself up over it.

"Sherlock," Rose began, sighing wearily. "When we first came to that arrangement where I visited you here, when... when I was a... sex worker, I realised how lucrative the escort business could be."

Sherlock's own features hardened at the memory, and he clenched his hands together. He looked down at the coffee table, unable to meet Rose's gaze. "It was all about the money for you then," he added, his own mind not only trying to distinguish between the Rose he knew now, and the person she had been over two years ago, but also reflecting on his own attitude toward Rose as a sex worker.

"Yes," Rose agreed. "So I took on another client as well."

Sherlock shifted uncomfortably before making eye contact with Rose again. "Because you needed the money," he said again, matter-of-factly. Sherlock could feel his face begin to flush in anger. He knew he shouldn't feel jealous about this now. He knew full well at the time he was paying Rose to make house calls that she'd still been fucking men at the Lyceum Street brothel. She'd admitted it to him at the time and he couldn't have cared less. But learning about another client who received Rose's personal attention and services—how did he feel about that?

It was Rose's turn to answer in a faint nod. "He was horrid," she forced herself to say out loud. Her eyes prickled with tears and she blinked to keep them at bay. "He... um," she began unsteadily.

"Rose," Sherlock said, protesting feebly. He didn't want to hear the details at all.

"He wasn't as nice as you."

Somehow the statement didn't warm Sherlock's heart. It just sickened him further that Rose had subjected herself to this experience because she needed the money. It was a well-worn excuse, but this was Rose. His Rose. And only last week he'd given her money for having sex with him again.

Sherlock quickly stood up and cleared his throat. He strode to the middle of the living area, then abruptly turned to face Rose, his fingers raking through his hair as he desperately tried to come to terms with what he'd done.

"I'm sorry," he said again, then paced in the opposite direction, stopping in front of the armchairs before the fire.

Rose had left the sofa and walked over to Sherlock. "I'm going to see a counsellor about him," she said, hoping Sherlock would understand that this wasn't about him. "I'll be in therapy," she said, smiling weakly at the irony.

Sherlock turned to face her. "You're a psychology graduate. Can't you just—"

"—figure it out myself?" Rose finished, smiling broadly at Sherlock.

He didn't return her smile; he didn't think this was at all funny.

"I need to talk to someone else—an impartial third person."

Sherlock shoved his hands into his pockets and said, "What can I do for you?" His eyes glistened with emotion, but they were fully focussed on Rose.

Rose struggled against bursting into tears at Sherlock's offer and the sympathy in his voice and expression. She sniffed before answering, but still spoke with a tremor in her voice. "Just be patient with me."

 _That's... that's not good enough,_  Sherlock thought.  _Not for me. Not when I'm fully capable of so much more._

"I meant about him. What do you want me to do about _him_?"

Sherlock's face had hardened, and the last time she had seen him that angry was when she had tried to proposition John Watson.

"Oh, Sherlock."

The tears escaped this time, and Rose suddenly embraced him, burying her face in his chest.

Sherlock wrapped his arms around her, and brought his lips to her hair. He couldn't believe how much he'd missed her. All tension left his body as the familiarity of her presence soothed him. She did that to him; it was no wonder he sought her company so frequently since his return. And now she was upset and he desperately needed to make this right.

"I know people," he said, brushing her hair aside. "They can make people disappear. He'll end up in Siberia if you like."

Rose trembled against Sherlock's chest as her sobbing turned to silent laughter. She looked up at him to find him smiling at her.

"Please don't do anything," she whispered.

"Tell me his name and MI5 will find something dubious on his computer."

"You're sounding like your brother now."

Sherlock shrugged. "Mycroft owes me. I'm sure I can get him to arrange something."

Rose brought her hands around to Sherlock's chest and dropped her gaze.

"It doesn't matter if he has a blood clot in his brain and dies of a stroke tomorrow," she began wearily. "Or if he dies in a plane crash over the English Channel next week. My past won't die if he does." She returned her gaze to Sherlock. "I have to deal with it."

Sherlock had furrowed his brow, deep in thought. "Mmm, a plane crash would be costly to organise, and then there's the risk of other casualties. A blood clot on the other hand..." His suggestion was accompanied by a mischievous grin.

Rose applied pressure to Sherlock's chest so that he would release her. She didn't want to think about that horrible man any longer and Sherlock's light-heartedness hadn't helped. Stepping out of his embrace, she replied tonelessly, "He has a family. They may need him. I have to go to work now."

Sherlock shoulders drooped as he watched Rose walk to the coffee table and grab her coat. Shoving his hands into his pockets once more, he casually strode over to her.

"Did you see him a lot?" he asked.

Rose paused as she drew on her coat. She fastened the buttons, studying them a little more intently than was necessary, as she replied, "Not as much as you."

Sherlock tried to remember how angry he'd been when he found out Rose had been trying to proposition John. He didn't recall feeling any kind of regret for ending his contact with her. Did she even care, aside from the loss of income since she had this other client? He didn't really want to dredge up the past, but he found himself wondering all the same.

"Were you still visiting him after you'd stopped coming here?"

Rose glanced at Sherlock, her expression a combination of surprise and hurt.

"No," she answered, distractedly pulling her bag over her shoulder. "I stopped seeing him before that. I decided the money wasn't worth the... humiliation."

Sherlock felt relieved. He didn't know why. It seemed a bit irrelevent, and perhaps a bit insensitive. Maybe. He wasn't sure.

"I have to go," Rose said, turning toward the door. She opened the door then paused, as a sense of loss overwhelmed her. One event triggered one emotion, and then another, until... "Why did you have to die?" she whispered, not daring to make eye contact with Sherlock.

"What?" he asked, momentarily bewildered.

Rose's face fell, and she angrily wiped away tears. "This is stupid. I'm sorry."

She quickly rummaged in her bag and pulled out a tissue.

Sherlock hung back, feeling confused. What had she said? What did she mean by that?

"I can't stop crying," she said, wiping her eyes. "I'm a fucking mess. I've gotta go to work."

"Rose."

Rose sniffed then raised teary eyes to Sherlock. "Why did you have to pretend to die?"

Sherlock took a step closer. "You know why—I told you. The whole world knows. It's on the internet."

Rose studied the rug for a few seconds before composing herself a little.

"After you died, I came back to London."

"I know. I followed you to Cardiff."

Rose tried to read Sherlock's expression. Did he know? Surely he would've stopped her if he knew where she was going that evening.

"I needed to find a place to live, and my parents wouldn't have me."

Sherlock huffed a breath in exasperation. He had an inkling where this was heading.

"You needed the money," he recited blandly, but feeling ill at ease all the same.

Rose nodded faintly.

"If I had known—"

"No," Rose said, cutting him off. "You don't get to put this on you. I'm responsible for every decision I've ever made, good or bad."

Rose moved to embrace Sherlock again. Wrapping her arms around his neck she spoke in his ear. "I'll see you in a few days." Then she kissed him briefly on his cheek and hastened out of his flat.

Sherlock exhaled deeply and bowed his head. He rubbed the back of his neck feeling an uncharacteristic pressure building up behind his eyes.

 _I could have prevented it,_  he thought morosely.  _I was too late getting back to London and too slow to let her know I was alive. Idiot!_

_Now... just who is this guy?_

Thoughts of murder made to look like an accident filled his mind.

* * *

When a few days turned into a week, Sherlock found he couldn't function properly. He snapped at John over the fact that his friend had been receiving mysterious emails containing nothing but a photograph of a pearl—six emails in succession, while the detective had received nothing half as interesting in comparison.

He wanted to know why Rose wasn't contacting him. And he still felt anger toward this unknown man who was the cause of Rose's breakdown. Sherlock couldn't help but feel guilty for his own contribution to Rose ending up in this pervert's company. Sherlock had given Rose the idea of being an escort in the first place, and hadn't revealed his suicide-sham early enough to prevent her from throwing away her future and finding herself desperate for money. He could see all that now, and it just about immobilised him.

"Sherlock?" John was saying, prompting the distracted Consulting Detective for the third time. "Have you thought of another lead?"

"No, John. Just waiting for this—"

Sherlock's eyes lit up as when his phoned chimed with a message from his contact who was tracing the location of the sender of John's emails.

"A warehouse in Wapping. Come on, John!" Sherlock commanded, snapping to life once more.

The case kept his mind and body occupied for a few more days, followed by a second case phoned in by D.I. Lestrade immediately afterwards. Sherlock barely had time to sleep and eat, and saved his reserves for the cases at hand. He ignored the hollow sensation in his heart until finally the second case was also solved and John had insisted he have dinner with him and Mary at their house, in place of the Chinese takeaway they used to consume post-cases.

Sherlock blindly acquiesced, his mind and body too tired to argue. And somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew he didn't want to return to his empty flat. He picked at his food like some lovelorn teenager, then curled up on the Watson's sofa while his hosts cleaned up the dinner dishes. He didn't hear Mary saying, "Aw, look at him," nor feel the warmth of the blanket she drew over him. He slept, heavily, until the sound of John exclaiming, "Bloody hell, Mary, you used my razor on your legs again!" thundered throughout their abode early the next morning.

Sherlock sat up, briskly ran his fingers through his hair then rose from the sofa, letting the blanket drop to the floor. As he was still clad in his shirt, trousers, jacket and shoes, he gave the impression he'd just arrived for morning tea, and not just spent the night on the sofa.

As made his way to the entrance, John emerged from the main bedroom wrapped in a bathrobe with his face covered in shaving cream.

"You off then?" he asked Sherlock, as the detective drew on his Belstaff.

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow at the unnecessary question but answered in a voice rough from sleep, "Thanks for dinner, and the... sofa."

John chuckled, his eyes twinkling with affection for his bachelor friend. "Anytime, mate. Sure you don't want to stay for a cuppa? Kettle's just boiled."

A female voice called from the confines of the bedroom, "White with one, please!"

A grin grew from one corner of Sherlock's mouth in response to this unfamiliar morning routine between the betrothed couple. "I should get going," he replied in a low voice. "London's probably offered up some new mystery along the banks of the Thames."

John smiled in response. "You can only live in hope, right?"

Sherlock turned toward the door, and popped his collar, pausing to take in an elaborate arrangement of flowers sitting on the entranceway table.

"Flowers for the fiancee, hmm?" he asked, raising his eyebrows. "Doesn't wreak havoc with Mary's allergies?"

John furrowed his brow. "Mary doesn't have allergies."

Sherlock tilted his head and offered John a benign smile, to which John bowed his head and let out an exasperated sigh.

"No wonder she wanted me to put the bloody things outside."

Sherlock chuckled. "And what was the occasion? Birthday? Guilt over having an affair?"

"Ha ha, very funny. Why can't you deduce the reason from the way the vase is tilted or something?"

"I deduced that you plopped them into the vase like that. Mary would've arranged them more aesthetically. She would've appreciated the sentiment, I'm sure, but can't go near them."

"Smart arse," John muttered. "Well, if you must know, Mary was feeling a bit down the other day. I thought they would cheer her up."

A small seed of an idea was planted in Sherlock's mind, but he was unsure of the details. Data. He needed data.

"Why would they cheer her up?"

"They're flowers, mate. Every woman loves to receive flowers. If not the flowers themselves, it's always the thought that counts. Especially if they've got allergies," he added humorlessly.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the floral arrangement, thinking deeply. Once satisfied at the idea that had fully bloomed in his mind he bid his friend goodbye and hastened outside to find a cab.

* * *

"What did you have in mind?" the older woman behind the counter asked Sherlock as she continued sliding her scissors along a length of purple ribbon.

"A bunch of them, or something," Sherlock replied, waving his hand nonchalantly as his eyes scanned the entirety of the displays in the florist shop.

"Sure," the lady responded. "Any special occasion in particular?"

"Possibly," Sherlock said carefully. "They all mean something don't they?"

"Well, yes. But you can always pick what you or they like."

Sherlock continued eyeing the displays critically. Finally he pointed to each display in turn, alternating with the index fingers on both hands, as he recited, "Love, affection, admiration, condolences, loyalty, purity, more love, desire, faithfulness, fidelity, sinfulness and pride."

He turned back to the now stunned florist and raised his eyebrows. "Not exactly what I'm looking for."

She cleared her throat and placed her scissors and the ribbon onto the counter. Forcing a smile to her face she asked, "And what sentiment do you want to convey? Perhaps I can arrange something special? Their favourite flower perhaps?"

"I don't know what she likes."

"Is she someone special?"

Sherlock's heart fluttered at the notion of confessing his feelings for Rose to a complete stranger.

"Yes," he answered reluctantly.

"Well, you know, the most romantic flower you can send is a single red rose. It simply means, 'I love you.'"

Sherlock stopped breathing, and stared wide-eyed at the florist. She fixed Sherlock with a kindly smile and said, "Here, I'll show you."

The florist retrieved a single rose from the back of the store and placed it carefully into a delicate vase before setting it in front of Sherlock on the counter.

Sherlock began breathing again and was able to view the flower a little more analytically.

"Red," he began, drawing in a quick breath. "Traditionally the colour of harlots and prostitutes. Not really appropriate. And a rose too. The symbolism's all wrong. That's basically saying, 'I still think you're a prostitute, and since I paid money for this rose, how about I pay for you as well.'"

The florist gaped at Sherlock as he raised his eyebrows expectantly.

"Er... red can mean love, actually," she responded.

"The wrong sort of love."

"Right then. How about a white rose?"

"Purity."

"Yes."

"A pure rose, in contrast to the recipient. You're not getting the symbolism yet are you?"

The florist stared at Sherlock in disbelief, then asked, ever so patiently, "Why don't you tell me the message you want to send her, and I'll think up a combination for a bouquet that will convey that?"

Sherlock drew in a deep breath and rearranged his thoughts. He tapped his fingers on the counter then said, haltingly, "I-miss-you." And then he gushed a little more confidently, "And I don't know why I'm being punished for you having degrading sex with some sick pervert two years ago."

The older woman regarded Sherlock for all of two seconds, blinked and said in business-like voice, "Right, well that sounds like carnations, lilies and chrysanthemums. Back in a minute."

Sherlock nodded, satisfied with her selection. He idly rotated the vase containing the rose and thought,  _I love you. Why on earth would I choose this one?_

_._

 


	26. I've Seen Those Symptoms Before

**Chapter 26 - I've Seen Those Symptoms Before**

Rose could hear the swell of excited voices, laughter and footsteps as a small group of staff members descended on the tiny office at the back of Roches Home Entertainment. Melanie, a tiny in-store promoter for a leading electronic brand, and one of a handful of staff members Rose actually got along with, told Rose she had to come out to sign something.

Rose looked at the faces peering excitedly through the door.

"Secret admirer," teased Sunil, a flamboyant retail sales assistant.

Feeling bewildered, Rose left the office and followed the group out to the middle of the store where the service counter sat. Another retail assistant, Kelly, who possessed a particularly dominating personality, was fawning over the courier. The young man stood awkwardly by the floral arrangement that was perched on the counter, holding a delivery slip for Rose to sign.

"Are ya sure they're not for me?" Kelly said, giving the bouquet a once over as Rose and company approached.

Rose's stomach dropped when she realised what all the fuss was about—a delivery of flowers, for her. She quickly glanced around in case Ewan was nearby. She had the sinking feeling the young man was attempting for the second time to go on a date with her, even though the last one had ended with him walking in on her snogging Sherlock on the day the Consulting Detective returned to London and had re-entered her life.

Rose signed the slip of paper as quickly as was humanly possible and tried to maintain a cool exterior on receiving the bouquet.

"Who are they from then?" Kelly practically bellowed.

"I'll need to read the card," Rose replied, plucking the small envelope from the centre of the arrangement.

Rose was surprised at how bulky it felt, and not what she expected if it contained a single greeting card. She was relieved when Sunil offered to find a vase for the bouquet in the tiny kitchen at the back of the store. She let him take the flowers from her, and she made a beeline back to her office, with only Melanie in tow, the others having rapidly lost interest.

"Do you think they're from _him_?" Melanie asked. She was the only one in whom Rose occasionally confided, in a general sense. She'd told the woman that she was having relationship troubles with her boyfriend, and didn't elaborate beyond that.

"I don't think so," Rose replied. "He's not a sending flowers type of guy."

"Probably Ewan then," Melanie said, winking conspiratorially at Rose. "I'll give you a yell later, yeah? Drinks?"

"Sure," Rose answered, distracted by opening the envelope as she escaped into the office.

Thankfully she had the small room to herself. Her and Gus's shifts usually overlapped in the middle of the day, and as he had opened the store that morning, she was on closing duties, which was only an hour away.

She slid the bulky contents out of the tiny envelope and was confused as to why there were _four_ greeting cards. Feeling apprehensive, she opened the first one. It was covered in handwriting from top to bottom and began with, _I don't know why I have to write this._

Frowning, she quickly glanced at the second card. It, too, was completely full of handwriting, and so was the third. On the fourth, her eyes dropped to the last line.

_Can I see you soon? Please. —SH._

It was the hesitant plea at the end, and the realisation that it was from Sherlock that caused Rose to drop the cards onto her desk, and take her head in her hands. The tears fell easily enough. Her guilt over hurting Sherlock and her love for the man, when she cared to admit it to herself, consumed her completely these days. But she was reluctant to see him because of the horrid group counselling session she had taken part in.

The group was suggested to her by her counsellor, Adele, who advised Rose to sit at the back and observe, to gauge if she thought the group dynamics could help her. After several minutes, Rose decided it wouldn't, but she stayed put until the end of the session. The members consisted of street workers, addicts mostly, some who were single mothers, a handful working through exiting the industry, and others just in need of support. Rose didn't fit the demographic at all, just as Sherlock had pointed out ages ago.

But it was over a cup of tea at the end of the session that Rose struck up a conversation with another girl, a tiny young thing, who had also sat at the back and observed. Eden looked like she belonged in a choir, but she ended up being a uni student who had worked as a call girl for the last year. She had fallen in love with a client.

Rose couldn't believe the similarity in their circumstances and was just about to confide in Eden when one of the other sex workers, who had been eavesdropping, started abusing the girl.

"'e just says 'e loves ya, to 'ave a free fuck. 'ow stupid are ya!"

"Please don't speak to her like that," Rose stepped in, speaking quite calmly considering her hammering heart. She began to explain that perhaps there were extenuating circumstances and that people shouldn't be so quick to judge, but she was also met with a torrent of abuse.

"Who the fuck are ya, comin' in 'ere an' tellin' us what to do!"

Meanwhile Eden had fled, and Rose was taken aside by Adele. When Rose suggested that she and Eden form their own counselling group, she was met with opposition. To be fair, she hadn't told Adele everything about her own situation and background—the fake suicide by the man she had come to love, the overbearing brother who had threatened her reputation, and the offer from Sherlock to make her previous client disappear. Some things just couldn't be spoken about so candidly.

Rose feared that her self-imposed absence from Sherlock's life would have little effect on the man. When she came home each day, she secretly hoped he'd be lying there, on her sofa, ready to tell her some trivial thing he'd observed about one of her neighbours. She would check the balcony before entering the building as well, and her heart would thud dully in her chest when she went to unlock her door. It always ended in disappointment.

But the flowers said it all. Well, at least the cards probably did if she could stop crying long enough to read the damn things.

Rose wiped her eyes with the back of her fingers, before grabbing a tissue and dabbing underneath her lower lashes, assuming she had now smeared her mascara. She attempted to read the first card again, concentrating hard on Sherlock's spidery scrawl that was difficult to read in places. She guessed he wrote quite rapidly, his hand struggling to keep pace with his thoughts.

_I don't know why I have to write this. Apparently the message that goes with the meaning behind the flowers is far too obscure for you to interpret, and a "Sorry, get well soon," type of sentiment found in their pre-made cards isn't appropriate. It's quite alarming the lack of imagination the authors of those cards possess. A card for every occasion? I think not. What about, "I'm sorry your father was attacked by a psychotic scientist, who was suffering the ill-effects of mind-altering experiments." Nothing even comes close. I'm not sure why I'm bothering with the flowers at all, when I could just send you this card. Well, I'm coming to the end of the card now—stupid tiny thing that it is—so I'll have to buy another._

Rose found herself quietly laughing at Sherlock's attempts at being romantic, if that's what this was. She missed him terribly, she realised; his perspective on social conventions was always so refreshing to hear. She turned to the second card.

_What I'm trying to say Rose is... Well, I'm not saying anything. I want to ask you a question instead. Why? Why are you excluding me from your life? Why are you upset? When people are usually upset around me, it's because of something I've done. If someone refuses to see me, it's because of something I've done. You said it wasn't me, yet all the evidence points to the fact that it is me. You need time to get over Mr Sex Deviant? But why do you need to do this away from me? I know I can help in some way. The Czech Republic practises surgically castrating sex offenders. Just thought you'd like to know that, in case you decide to accept my offer. Damn card again._

Rose wiped away a solitary tear, and continued to the third card.

_You think I'm writing about sex, but it's not that at all. I want to be a part of your life again. I miss lying on your sofa and having you sit next to me, tapping away at your computer in an effort to further your studies in Psychology. I think that's a brilliant idea, by the way—Forensic Psychology. You could work with me! And I promise we won't continue with the study. Well, maybe later, when you're feeling better. That sounds like an appropriate greeting card. "Get well soon. Hope you'll be testing condoms with me again before too long." Speaking of cards..._

Rose dabbed a tissue at her eyes again, and continued on to the last one.

_Ring me, Rose, or text me. Or something. Send me flowers! Or not. I don't really think this is an effective method of communication, but I've done it now. I've filled in the little form to get this delivered to your workplace. You don't mind do you? Apparently women like to have everyone else making a fuss over their flowers. It's a curious thing. Just one last question: Can I see you soon? Please. —SH._

Rose shuddered out a sob and cried into her hands again. She couldn't _not_ see him after such a ridiculous message. Her sobs soon turned to tears of laughter, and she was in this state when Sunil entered the office with her bouquet.

* * *

Sherlock checked his watch again. Surely the flowers would've been delivered by now. The florist had said the delivery window was between 1pm and 5pm. It was now 5:42pm. He felt frustrated that he didn't have any details beyond that. When he'd quizzed the florist about delivery routes, she invited him to leave. He only wanted vague suburb names, really, in order of priority. Surely that information wasn't too hard to obtain from the courier company they used?

"Have you finished with this?" Molly asked, indicating the microscope that Sherlock had abandoned in favour of pacing about the lab.

"Sorry, what?"

Molly gestured to the microscope and Sherlock gave her a faint nod in return.

When his phone chimed, he muttered, "Finally."

"Waiting for some data?" Molly asked conversationally.

Sherlock's brow furrowed as he read the message.

"Rose, what day is it?"

A heavy silence hung in the air, before Molly cleared her throat and replied, "It's Friday. And the name is Molly."

Sherlock looked up from his phone. "I know," he replied, giving the pathologist a puzzled look. He then glanced back down at his phone, frowned once more, before shoving it into his jacket pocket.

"Not good?" Molly ventured.

Sherlock grabbed at his coat that was draped over the back of a stool and pulled it around himself. "Not the best," he replied distractedly.

 _Can I see you on Wednesday at your place?_ was the part of Rose's text he objected to. Wednesday was so far away. That must mean she didn't want to see him as desperately as he needed to see her.

The first part of her message had filled him with so much hope: _Thank you for the flowers. They're beautiful. Your message was very special too. I miss you and would like to see you soon._

She missed him? So what was keeping her away from him? Did his message put her off?

He'd spent so long sitting at the florist shop, composing those cards. There were so many moments where he had wanted to tear them up, walk out and forget the whole thing. But during the hour he'd spent writing, quite a number of people, of both genders, young and old, had entered the shop, all basically asking for the same thing—something special for somebody special. So it was the done thing, apparently. He had soldiered on, and found the whole process quite cathartic in the end. At first it was difficult—should he state his _feelings_? What were they, exactly? But he found it better just to say exactly what he _wanted_. Rose knew him well enough by now to interpret the sentiment behind the words.

But this whole situation was nothing short of ridiculous.

* * *

She tried so hard to refrain from crying but his firm embrace set Rose off anyway, and she buried her face into his neck.

"You're still upset," Sherlock murmured into her hair, breathing in the scent of her shampoo. Apple and peach, or something. And then there was her soap; the coconut may irritate his skin, but all of the combinations of these scents that bombarded his senses only served to remind him that he no longer had Rose, nor the quiet sanctity of her flat.

He didn't think he'd ever complain about her wispy strands of hair irritating his chest again. Just what would that feel like? Lying in bed and holding her close? Waking up next to her? It had been so long, and he didn't want to let her go right now.

"No, I'm just happy to see you," Rose replied, her voice sounding distinctly muffled.

She drew away a little and looked up at him, noticing that his face was full of concern.

"I'm sorry," he began, "but the way you reacted on remembering being fucked by sick perverts seems very similar to this response."

Rose couldn't help but laugh lightly, before her expression grew momentarily serious, and she pressed her lips to Sherlock's, closing her eyes and bringing her body in close to his. She felt his hesitance to reciprocate and didn't blame him for wanting to remain cautious.

On breaking their kiss, she whispered, "Thank you for the flowers."

"Did... did you like them?" Sherlock asked carefully. He really considered the whole exercise pointless. Except for the cards. He'd put a lot of thought into those.

"They were beautiful, and a wonderful surprise. I left them at work though; they brighten up the office. I took your cards home of course, since they're so special." Rose's eyes twinkled in delight. "And the rose."

"What rose?" Sherlock asked slowly, narrowing his eyes at her.

"The single rose in the centre of the bouquet. I couldn't resist taking one flower home, especially a red rose. I thought maybe you picked it because it reminded you of me. You know, a rose?"

Sherlock's chest almost heaved in horror at the thought of the liberty taken by the florist. The elder woman had advised Sherlock it would all be done before the courier's scheduled pick up time that afternoon, so he'd let her bustle him out of the shop without getting to see the final arrangement. But the genuine smile Rose was giving him had him conclude that the symbolism behind the red rose wasn't an issue after all.

"Something like that," he muttered, feeling keen to change the subject all the same.

Rose's mouth curved into a smile once more, and she kissed him lightly again, before pulling away completely.

"How about tea?" she asked, moving toward the armchairs and away from him.

"Tea?" Sherlock repeated.

"Shall I put the kettle on?"

She was keeping busy, and was avoiding getting too intimate with him; Sherlock could see that.

"If you like," he responded, trying to keep the disappointment out of his voice.

"I've got just enough time for a cuppa before I have to leave for work," she called back from the kitchen.

Sherlock felt as if he'd been stabbed. She was going to work! She wasn't here to spend the day with him.

"Have you been busy?" she asked as she filled the kettle.

Sherlock sank into his armchair. He needed to maintain a cool composure otherwise he was going to yell at her for playing games with his emotions.

"A couple of cases," he answered vaguely.

But Rose glanced over at him, and raised her eyebrows to encourage him to elaborate. Sherlock enlightened her over the case of the poison giant, reluctantly at first, but found it easier once he'd got going. Rose was understandably horrified that someone had arranged an ambush for Sherlock and John, but Sherlock shrugged it off as no longer of interest to him.

He mentioned the elephant in the room case, but skirted around the finer details, since that one was protected under the Official Secrets Act.

Rose asked him about his cases in general, how he normally coordinated with Scotland Yard, and how it felt to be working with John again, all over a cup of tea, seated comfortably by the fire. It was quite pleasant, and sedate, but felt somewhat contrived, at least to Sherlock. Before long it was time for Rose to leave for work.

Sherlock glanced at his watch. She'd been there a little under an hour. He felt his composure rapidly disintegrating, and he asked tentatively, "Can I see you after work tonight?"

He could see Rose falter as she rinsed out their tea cups in the sink. She wiped her hands on a tea towel and made her way back to the living area, looking as if she was trying to choose her words carefully.

"If you could still be patient with me just a little longer," she began.

"Patience is not one of my strong points," Sherlock responded, rising from his armchair.

Rose smiled weakly, all false confidence abandoned.

"I'm still working through some things," she stated, barely able to make eye contact with Sherlock. "I just need time before things can get back to the way they were." There was a slight tremor in Rose's voice so she paused a moment before continuing. "I need to progress slowly."

Sherlock had shoved his fists into his pockets and clenched them out of sight in frustration. He still had the vague sense that he was being punished somehow. But all these things she was saying—needing time, progressing things slowly—these were all vacuous words. Of course they were coming from some airhead, Sherlock concluded.

"Are you seeing a therapist now?" he asked, his voice surprisingly calm considering the animosity he felt toward this anonymous third party, who he assumed was largely responsible for keeping Rose away from him.

"Of sorts," Rose replied.

She didn't want to tell Sherlock about the failed group counselling session, or that she had no intention of returning to her individual private sessions. She had found a sympathetic ear in the unlikely form of her neighbour, Tonya Small. They had been having morning tea together whenever Rose had a late start at the entertainment store. And Rose had taken up journal writing, an activity that she found surprisingly therapeutic.

"Is it working for you?"

Rose nodded imperceptibly. She hadn't failed to notice Sherlock's growing agitation, and she felt compelled to leave immediately to relieve the poor man of her miserable company. She hastened over to him, gave him a quick kiss on his cheek and said, "Thank you for being so understanding. I'll ring you next week."

She felt Sherlock open his mouth to say something, but she bid a hasty retreat, snatching up her bag before she lost her composure in front of him once again. She left the flat, not knowing what Sherlock was going to say, if anything at all.

A sudden wave of despair—a sense of rejection and abandonment—surged through Sherlock, leaving him short of breath and dizzy. His eyes stung and he blinked rapidly before pinching the bridge of his nose to alleviate the pressure.

What was going on? Why was he feeling this way? His head was reeling with a thousand thoughts simultaneously bombarding it, and his stomach felt as though he'd been kicked by an assailant wearing steel-capped boots. He paced furiously about his living room, almost tearing at his hair as he raked his fingers through it, resisting the urge to race downstairs and demand that she come back.

_Fuck!_

He wanted to yell, and kick something or _someone_.

* * *

It was Sunday afternoon, and Rose was assisting the staff at the Rendezvous to set up for a private function to be held that evening. A large group of business delegates from abroad had booked out the entire club for their end of trip night of entertainment. It was going to be a huge money earner for the club, and Rose was happy to work for a few hours when Gary, the owner, asked her to come in to help with their preparations.

Rose didn't care to ask what kind of businessmen they were—she had an inkling they were organised crime—so she was relieved that she didn't have to work any shifts that night. Her delicate psyche these days probably couldn't handle having to rebuff propositions thrown in her direction. Most of the usual clientele could accept that the cloakroom attendant was not available for private lap dancing sessions, and Rose could usually fend off such requests. Past experience had told her that Gary was going to rotate the dancers through the cloakroom that evening, just so nobody had to say 'No' to these particular businessmen.

She was just helping Henry, one of the bouncers, to install a row of LED lighting along the length of the bar, when Caity, a dancer who had been with the club almost as long as Rose had, rushed up to her.

"Rose! It's Angel!" Caity announced breathlessly. "She's having a panic attack again!"

Rose sighed and exchanged a glance with Henry.

"Go," Henry said, shaking his head in exasperation. He'd also heard it all before. "This is the last one anyway."

Rose handed the bouncer the remaining cable tie she was holding, then followed Caity toward the back of the club and through to the dressing room.

Angel was one of her favourite dancers, and the stripper had only been with the club for six months. Her real name was May Sutherland, but she was called Angel because her complexion gave her an unearthly and innocent quality, especially when her long dark hair was covered in a blonde wig. Everyone else was tired of hearing about her affair with her university lecturer, and having to listen to her voice her suspicions that he wasn't separated from his wife as he had claimed. Her ever-increasing panic attacks would cripple her in terms of performing. If she wasn't such a popular and profitable dancer, Rose was sure Gary would've fired her long ago.

Rose was able to talk May through her concerns, and finally convinced the young woman to accompany Rose to see Sherlock later in the week. Rose had recommended the Consulting Detective's services to May over the last couple of weekends, but May always hesitated in taking her up on the offer, thinking that she was somehow betraying her lover by hiring someone to investigate him.

When Rose had finished at the club in the early evening, she caught the tube back to Bayswater. She was looking forward to having dinner with Tonya. The Clarence House Cannibal was helping Rose work out a strategy for reconciling with her parents, as well as giving her a sounding board for her thoughts on establishing a healthier relationship with Sherlock. Rose had progressed as far as deciding to keep her visits to Sherlock no more than weekly, and she had organised a lunch date with her mother the coming Tuesday.

For the next two days, she had early starts opening the entertainment store. Working in the office constantly reminded her of Sherlock, although the flowers were now gone, but the empty vase still stood on top of the filing cabinet. She was going to send him a text about her and May's visit so that he could expect them; she was sure that phoning him would risk her turning into a blubbering mess on hearing his voice. She was intending to meet May at the Baker Street station in the late afternoon on Tuesday, after Rose finished her shift, but Gus, her co-worker, called in sick, meaning Rose had to stay late to close the store. She phoned May to postpone, but in a rare moment of self-confidence, the stripper said she would visit Sherlock herself.

* * *

Sherlock leant his head against the back of his armchair and closed his eyes, his satisfaction at solving another case rather short-lived. He was in danger of sinking into a deep depressive state on not only having no thrilling cases to solve, but also because Rose had sent him a text, and it had nothing to do with her visiting him.

John stood by the window, chuckling to himself as he observed Sherlock's previous clients leaving. Sherlock had advised them that yes, their son-in-law _was_ trying to cheat them out of their life savings. This left the couple gleeful as they immediately began scheming about how to live out the rest of their lives splurging every last penny and thoroughly enjoying themselves in the process. John enjoyed watching them as they walked along Baker Street, arm in arm, a new spring in their step.

"We could make that a new invigorating programme for seniors," he commented, with his attention still on the retired couple. "Live your life and stuff the inheritance. Could catch on."

Sherlock ignored the doctor's musings, preferring to wallow in self-pity.

"Ah, here's a potential client," John said, after a further minute of people-watching through the living room window. "Is she a client?" he queried on observing the young woman hesitate before their front door. "Oh yes... she's going to ring the doorbell. Oh no, she's changed her mind. No, she's gonna do it. No, she's leaving. She's leaving," John said, sighing in disappointment. He then cleared his throat, before raising his eyebrows in surprise. "Oh, she's coming back."

"She's a client; she's boring. I've seen those symptoms before," Sherlock intoned.

John threw a glance in Sherlock's direction. "Hmm?"

"Oscillation on the pavement always means there's a love affair," Sherlock explained without opening his eyes. He had an inkling he knew who this woman was.

At the sound of the doorbell, John left the window, and trotted downstairs to receive the young woman. Sherlock reluctantly stood up and casually placed his hands into his pockets, ready to greet Rose's stripper friend—another reminder that Rose was barely in his life.

* * *

Rose was feeling quite positive that _this time_ she wouldn't become overly-emotional and nearly breakdown in front of Sherlock. _This time_ , they'll have a more intimate conversation and discuss how they feel about each other—mark this visit as progress.

She used the key Sherlock had given her to let herself into 221. She had sent him a text the night before, thanking him for helping her friend, May, and she added, after giving it some thought, _Can I visit you tomorrow morning?_

Sherlock had replied almost immediately, _You don't have to ask. Come around any time —SH._

Shutting the door behind her, Rose walked through to the stairwell door and paused when she heard the sound of male laughter floating downstairs from above. She recognised that laugh, although it had been two years since she'd last heard it. Two years in the exact same location—when she and John Watson were slowly getting tipsy on gin and tonic, attempting to have a laugh about the late Sherlock Holmes, right before they started snogging.

Rose couldn't go up just yet. It would be too awkward. What would Sherlock say? _John, do you remember Shelley?_ To which John would reply, _Of course I do. She's really called Rose isn't she? And isn't she that prostitute you used to pay to have sex with? Come to mention it, I think I almost tapped that the night before your funeral, mate. A freebie, she said. Good times._

Rose hovered at the bottom of the staircase, listening to both John's and Sherlock's easy-going banter. She wondered what they were discussing.

"Are you right, love?"

Rose was momentarily startled by the landlady who had emerged from her rooms at the back of the passageway, carrying a feather duster.

Mrs Hudson had recognised Rose. She had let the young woman into the flat a few times, more-so before Sherlock's 'suicide', but she remembered the pretty young thing all the same.

"Oh, I'm just... I think he's got company," Rose said, gazing upward toward the landing. She was at a loss as to what excuse to give for hovering in the entranceway.

Mrs Hudson lowered her voice to a stage whisper. "It's only John. You remember John, don't you? Sherlock's colleague?"

Rose's pulsed raced, accelerating along with her stress levels. She heard John's voice coming closer, as he spoke, pausing at the threshold of Sherlock's open living room door.

"Just stop being an arse and go," John demanded in a firm but affectionate tone.

"Could I just... do you think we could..." Rose indicated back along the passageway, and made moves toward the landlady's kitchen, as a look of alarm grew on her face.

John's voice disappeared back into the flat as Rose and Mrs Hudson retreated into the kitchen.

"What is it, dear?" Mrs Hudson ask hurriedly, her voice full of concern.

"I can't let John see me," Rose replied, thinking quickly. When Mrs Hudson looked puzzled, Rose drew in a sharp breath. How could she tell Mrs Hudson the truth when she herself didn't know how to define her and Sherlock's relationship? And how did Sherlock define it? Breathing out slowly, to steady her nerves she said, "When I used to visit Sherlock, I was only a psychology student, writing a paper."

Mrs Hudson looked thoughtful. "Yes, John said something like that," she recalled.

"Well, I graduated, and now... well, I do counselling work... sometimes, and Sherlock kind of asked me to... I don't know," Rose paused, shrugging a little, "listen to him, I guess. He just needs someone to—"

"The poor dear, of course he does. All that hiding out abroad, and possibly..." Mrs Hudson lowered her voice and leant in conspiratorially, "… fighting bad people. I expect he's a bit traumatised."

Rose smiled wanly. "So he doesn't want anybody to know he's sort of receiving therapy, if that's okay."

The kindly lady nodded her understanding and affectionately patted Rose on the arm. She offered Rose a cuppa while they waited for the doctor to leave. Mrs Hudson regaled a sufficiently surprised Rose with stories of drug cartels and exotic dancing in Florida.

* * *

Sherlock stood by the living room window brooding as his eyes scanned Baker Street. Rose was late, if she had intended arriving at the same time as last week. She wouldn't have time to visit him and then make it all the way to her workplace for an 11am start, Sherlock concluded. As the minutes ticked by and John's voice moved to the background, Sherlock grew more agitated. Outwardly, he appeared to be in a pensive mood, save for the rapid tapping together of the thumb and middle finger on his right hand.

He wasn't even concerned that John had shown up to personally hand Sherlock the business card of the tailor so that he could get measured for his best man's suit.

"You'd accidentally on purpose delete my message if I sent the details to you via text or email," John had reprimanded the detective, even before the latter had a chance to be at fault.

What did it matter if Rose arrived while John was still here, Sherlock thought. John would remember Rose surely—although he may only know her as Shelley. But Shelley had tried to proposition John, Sherlock remembered, and John had grown wary of her. Still, she had come around to the flat to offer her condolences, Rose told him, and stolen the Union Jack cushion at the same time. John probably had a less than high opinion of her.

Sherlock didn't care though.

He would tell John had he been seeing Rose continuously ever since he returned, and that he'd visited Rose just days after his 'suicide' two years ago as well.

_Oh hang on. John wouldn't be happy to hear that another person was privy to that information. I'd best keep that little fact hidden then._

"Well, I'm off," John stated, his task completed. "I've got a late start today. Just try to get to the tailor and measured before Christmas, okay?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes then nodded his acquiescence. He'd given up on protesting and trying to convince John that the suits he normally wore on a daily basis would be perfectly adequate for the wedding.

John left, rapidly descending the stairs, as Sherlock drew out his phone from his jacket pocket.

He was disappointed to find that there were no messages from Rose stating that she was delayed and that she was on her way. He thought about ringing her, or sending her a text, but then baulked at the idea. He'd already said _Please_ once in his greeting card; any more messages asking to see her and he would start to appear desperate.

The sound of rapid footsteps ascending the stairs made his heart flutter until he realised there had been no preceding sound of the front door clicking shut. _Mrs Hudson then,_ he thought in disappointment. _But, wait!_ The footsteps were too light and too quick for the landlady.

There was no time for Sherlock to ponder this mystery any further because Rose materialised at the top of the staircase at that moment and Sherlock's heart leapt into his mouth.

"Sorry," she said, slightly out of breath. "I was having tea with your landlady."

Such a notion didn't compute in Sherlock's mind. "What?" he asked hesitantly.

Rose kept walking toward him, her expression relaxed and pleasant. Evidently a cup of tea and a natter with Mrs Hudson had done her the world of good.

"Well, I heard John's voice, so I stayed down there until he left. She's lovely."

She planted a soft kiss on Sherlock's lips as the Consulting Detective still puzzled over what had just happened downstairs.

"You did what?" he asked, putting a hand lightly on Rose's back when she remained in front of him. "Why didn't you just ring me or send a text?"

"I didn't think of it," Rose replied, suddenly feeling guilty when she realised just how anxious Sherlock had become while he had been waiting for her.

Sherlock let out a breath of exasperation and he dropped his arm.

Moving away from her, he asked, "Shall I put the kettle on?"

Rose turned to face Sherlock who was striding into the kitchen. "I can't stay now. I have to get to work."

Sherlock spun around and immediately walked back into the living room. "You just got here!"

"I've been here for a while," Rose replied, vaguely gesturing in the direction of the stairwell.

Sherlock furrowed his brow in irritation. This situation was just getting worse as the days passed, he thought. "You should've just come up."

"It seemed a bit awkward," Rose replied, shrugging lightly. In Sherlock's eyes perhaps her excuse appeared weak, but Rose was reluctant to explain the entirety of it—making out with John, the sex they'd almost had, and her confession the next morning to being Sherlock's paid sexual partner.

"I don't care what John thinks," Sherlock said, walking toward Rose. "He's out there living his life exactly the way he wants to. I'm trying to live mine. What business is it of his who visits me?"

Rose was disappointed in herself once more. She seemed to wear the negative emotion like a permanent coat these days. She stepped into Sherlock's personal space and put her hands lightly on his chest. "I promise I'll come earlier next week."

She pressed her lips to his as Sherlock wound his arms around her. He reciprocated this time, and the warm demand of his mouth, sensuous in its growing intensity, caused a mild panic to rise up inside Rose.

She pulled back, breaking their kiss, and murmured against his lips, "Next week, okay?"

"Next week?" Sherlock repeated, his voice rough with desire. "Why not tomorrow, or tonight?" He brushed her lips with his again, hoping to change her mind.

Rose lightly pushed against his chest, breaking away from him as he reluctantly released her.

"No, it has to be... next week," she responded weakly. She could barely convince herself that this was the best option. How did she hope to persuade Sherlock?

Sherlock was confused. Her cheeks were flushed, and her pupils were blown. _Obviously aroused. But why is she playing games?_ He could feel his temper building as the idea of rejection swam around his head once more.

"What's going on? Why are you—"

Suddenly the light dawned in Sherlock's eyes, and his face hardened. "I see what you're doing here," he declared, his voice like gravel.

"What?"

"This," he said, gesturing toward the armchairs. "These _weekly_ visits." He narrowed his eyes, but fixed them on Rose with a fierce intensity. "Every Wednesday is it?" Sherlock coolly glanced at his watch. "And you're late. You should've been here at nine."

He stood in front of her, with his hands on his hips, waiting for an explanation.

"What are you talking about?"

"This," he said again. "A Wednesday appointment, just like we used to have, only this time we're not fucking." His voice took on a mocking, lighter tone as he continued. "We're having the tea break though. But no sex, because _you're not a prostitute_."

Rose let out a long, shaky breath, and her eyes stung at his words. "That's not—"

"Is this what your therapist has suggested you do?" Sherlock asked, a note of derision in his voice. "Mimic our previous appointments, but no sex in the bedroom, just tea in the living room? Should _you_ pay _me_ back two hundred pounds per visit to refund all of our sessions?"

"Sherlock, stop it!"

"You can't refund my virginity, Rose."

"Just stop it!"

"What about Mr Creepazoid? Are you visiting his little love nest too, erasing all the degrading acts he made you take part in, by drinking endless cups of tea and chatting about the weath—"

Rose suddenly lashed out with a resounding slap across Sherlock's face.

Sherlock's face stung. That was _hard._ It did nothing to quell his anger though, quite the opposite. His eyes blazed with a dark intensity. His voice, by contrast, was quite calm, and he lowered it a notch or two as he spoke. "I was unimpressed with you slapping me that first time." He rubbed his hand down his cheek to his jaw, then abruptly turned from Rose. "Leave," he commanded, his voice almost crackling. He gestured behind him to the door as he slowly moved to the fireplace with his back to her.

Rose trembled with the anger that had provoked her to stop Sherlock in his tracks. Her chest heaved as she tried to gather her thoughts. Turning from him, she made for the door, her heart hammering in her chest.

He'd spoken about that vile, hideous man, Rose thought, her stomach churning at the images he conjured. Such a sick bastard had no place in the life she was striving to make with Sherlock. In attempting to distance herself from that previous world, though, she was driving a wedge between herself and the man she'd come to love. And now he wanted her to—

Rose's descent was suddenly halted three steps from the landing. She hadn't heard Sherlock pursue her until he grabbed her arm, and had whirled her around. He leant with both hands against the wall, on either side of her, barring her way.

"Don't..." he rasped, his grey eyes glistening with a very real fear. "Don't leave."

Rose's back was pressed up against the wall, and she shuddered out a sob as Sherlock loomed over her.

"You keep leaving," he continued, struggling to recompose himself.

Rose's eyebrows lifted as she struggled to decide if there was still a fury simmering behind Sherlock's eyes, or a sense of despair. He blinked, and neither option was viable any more. He clenched his jaw at her silence and his face clouded over with a look of cold indifference.

"Go," he said, pushing off from the wall.

He didn't look at her again, and rapidly ascended the stairs before disappearing into his living room.

What was that, Rose thought. That fleeting moment of vulnerability? Was he actually referring to her when he said, "You keep leaving," or everyone else in his life? Rose tried to read the meaning behind his expression and his words. But there was one thing she knew for sure—he was hurting, and he needed her. Rose decided that her strategy was all wrong. You don't hurt the one you love.

She straightened her skirt, and readjusted her bag on her shoulder. Inhaling deeply, she slowly ascended the staircase.


	27. All the Soldiers Like a Nice Girl

**Chapter 27 - All the Soldiers Like a Nice Girl**

He was standing by the living room window, his hands thrust into his trouser pockets, staring morosely onto the street below. The Consulting Detective turned his head suddenly as Rose crossed the threshold into his flat. His eyes, which were initially a dull, slate grey, flickered to life. Sherlock was expecting to observe Rose through his living room window, leaving number 221 and walking out of his life once more. It took his brain a split second to register that the vision before him was in fact her, and she had not left him after all.

Sherlock strode hesitantly away from the window, barely able to keep his emotions in check. Rose deposited her bag onto the coffee table and shrugged out of her coat. After draping it over her bag, she crossed the room, meeting Sherlock half-way. Her heart heaved in sympathy when she noted his dark, rounded eyes.

Sherlock pulled Rose into his arms, and held his breath, not daring to make a sound lest he drive her away again. He felt Rose nestle her head underneath his chin, and he held her firmly, a sense of relief washing over him.

As he pressed his lips to her hair and gently rubbed her back, he murmured, "I don't want to have sex with you, Rose. I just need to be near you, for more than a fleeting moment."

Rose's heart thundered in her chest. She felt Sherlock's arms tighten around her and she blinked back tears. She lifted her head and met Sherlock's eyes.

"I know," she responded in a low whisper. "And I'm sorry. I didn't realise the effect my adjustment period was having on you." Rose drew one hand to Sherlock's cheek, where she brushed it lightly with her thumb. "And I'm sorry I slapped you."

Sherlock studied Rose's face, lost in his own confusion of thoughts. "Perhaps I deserved it," he replied, reflecting on his own comments. They had been composed in the heat of the moment, crafted to have an impact, to hurt. Like a wounded bear Sherlock had lashed out thoughtlessly. For that brief moment he had wanted her to experience the pain he was feeling. He was tired of this. Ever since coming back to London, he'd been on the back foot, having to give endless apologies, and feel guilty for finally letting people into his heart, sacrificing himself for them because he _cared_ , so they could turn around and reject him. It hurt, and had left him feeling particularly vulnerable.

For a time he had Rose, though. And she filled in all the gaps for him. She'd made him feel wanted and appreciated. He desperately needed her to be whole again. For him. Was that so selfish?

"I don't know what I can do to help you," he continued, his voice warmed by sincerity, "but staying away from you isn't an option. I just can't do that."

Rose's breath stuttered in her throat, and she observed a tiny flicker of uncertainty grace Sherlock's features. She'd been pushing him away for a couple of weeks now. The poor man must've been feeling rejected and confused. He was swinging through a range of emotions: despair, anger, and cool detachment—the latter, Rose surmised, being his usual coping mechanism.

"I thought it was the best thing for us," Rose began haltingly. "For me. Perhaps not. I'm a lousy therapist as it turns out."

She gave Sherlock a wan smile, which he returned, his face softening in the process.

"I thought you were getting yourself a therapist?" he asked.

"I've been seeing a counsellor. I can't afford to see a private therapist just yet."

She dropped her arms from Sherlock's shoulders and said, "I'll stay a little longer, but I really have to work today—at least this afternoon, because I'm on closing." Her eyes implored Sherlock's, hoping he wouldn't get upset again. "Just let me ring them and say I'll be a couple of hours late, okay? I'll come back tonight if you like. Or you can come over to my place?"

Sherlock's heart lifted by degrees and he nodded, dropping his arms from around Rose so she could make her phone call.

"I'll... ah... I'll come to your flat," Sherlock said when he'd found his voice again. He'd missed her place, more than he thought he could ever miss an ordinary residence. He'd missed the whole routine he had established there. And of course, that terrible hollow sensation in his heart told him he'd missed Rose. That went without saying.

Rose nodded but didn't reply as she listened to someone answering the phone at the entertainment store. She walked away from Sherlock, and into the kitchen while she spoke to a co-worker. At that moment Mrs Hudson appeared at the top of the stairs, looking hesitant.

"Sorry for interrupting your session, Sherlock," she said in a loud whisper. "But your clients have been ringing my doorbell quite a lot. I've sent them all away, while you and Rose have your _you know what_ ," she finished, whispering the last part.

Sherlock did a double-take. _You know what?_

"Isn't yours working?" Mrs Hudson continued, when Sherlock just gave her a look of alarm.

"I disconnected the wiring," he replied, still thrown by the landlady's remark. "It's been ringing non-stop since I returned to Baker Street."

"Oh, that's because you've got clients again," Mrs Hudson commented, tutting at the Consulting Detective.

Sherlock sighed in irritation. These days he only wanted cases to fill the void created by Rose's absence. Now that she was here, a case at the present moment was an unwelcome intrusion, as was Mrs Hudson.

"I'll fix it tomorrow." He waved his hand at the landlady dismissively, and snapped, "Go away."

Mrs Hudson muttered as she turned away, "Death hasn't improved your manners, young man."

Rose finished her call and made her way back into the living room where Sherlock had just finished shutting the door on Mrs Hudson's retreating figure. He locked it for good measure.

Turning in bewilderment, he asked Rose, "What did you tell Mrs Hudson?"

"Oh," Rose laughed, as she dropped her phone into her handbag. She looked sheepish when she noticed Sherlock's expression. "I told her I was your therapist, of sorts."

Sherlock was aghast. "You did what?"

"Well, I had to say something that sounded plausible, if I'm going to be coming and going a lot and letting myself in all the time."

"I don't need therapy. There's nothing wrong with me," Sherlock said forcibly.

"I know... I just... I couldn't think of anything else to say."

Sherlock could see that Rose looked contrite, and he struggled against protesting that he would rather be thought of as needing a prostitute than needing a therapist. A physical weakness he could admit to, but rarely a mental one. Amiability won out, for Sherlock didn't want to give Rose any more reasons to walk out on him. He casually shoved his hands into his pockets and quipped, "Why would I want to see you? Apparently you're not a very good therapist. Didn't one of your clients commit suicide?"

Rose's face brightened in relief. "Apparently it was all in his head."

They shared a brief laugh before Sherlock slowly narrowed the gap between them. He ran his hands down her arms before he drew her to him. It was time to start the day over.

"Hello Rose," he said, his voice pitched low.

He bent down and lightly touched his lips to hers. His breath was like a soft caress and Rose melted into him, amid the glorious shimmering heat that radiated between them. His kiss was so tender that Rose held her breath, wanting to savour everything about it.

With his mouth still hovering over hers, Sherlock murmured, "This is your hello kiss."

He brought his hands up to cup Rose's face as their kiss deepened. Twin pulses raced, and Rose emitting a soft sigh against him once again signalled a cautionary warning. He slowly eased out of their kiss. He didn't want to rush into anything only to be thwarted by Rose's memories resurfacing again.

"That's enough to be going on with," he remarked, his voice rough with emotion. He smiled broadly, the sparkle in his eyes sending a warm ripple through Rose.

She opened her mouth to reply when her phone began to ring from her bag.

"Sorry, I have to get that."

Rose muttered something about having to be available until those 'useless bastards' found the invoices for the MacFarlane account. She wrestled her phone from her bag and took the call, while Sherlock drew in a steady breath to reset.

The rest of the world had rushed in, bombarding his senses. A moment ago, all he had experienced was Rose—the way she felt against him, the taste and scent of her—while the evidence that the rest of humanity existed and was calling for his attention had been lost.

He could now hear Mrs Hudson closing the downstairs door on a desperate woman's pleas. His own phone had chimed with no less than three text alerts in the space of one minute. Sherlock fished his phone from his jacket pocket while he sauntered over to the living room window. Looking down onto the street, he could see the emotional visitor hop into a cab. He briefly glanced at his messages: one reminder from John to visit the tailor, one message from Mycroft to ring their mother more often, and a third from Lestrade. That one sounded promising at least.

Sherlock redirected his attention to Rose, who was still talking exasperatedly with her co-worker. She was juggling her phone between shoulder and hand as she filled the kettle. It looked like they were having morning tea after all.

* * *

Rose poured herself a second cup, her heart a dull thump in her chest. Should she tell him?

Sherlock cleared his throat and leant closer, his arm sliding further along the back of the couch behind Rose.

"I won't confront him. I promise," he said softly.

Rose left her cup in its saucer on the coffee table and looked up into Sherlock's eyes. Her own were slightly reddened after she had given her emotional account of some of the more unsavoury acts in which she had participated at the bidding of her rich and sick client. She noticed Sherlock's face hardening by degree while she spoke, but he had reached out and gently held her hand, as she had finished her recount.

She exhaled deeply, and then after a quick intake of breath she said quickly, "John Garvie."

There, she'd said it—spoken his name aloud for Sherlock to hear. A tiny weight lifted from her, a miniscule amount really, but she was surprised that sharing the bastard's name with Sherlock could alleviate some of the pain in a way.

Sherlock gave Rose a comforting smile, then moved his arm to her shoulders, pulling her to his chest and kissing the top of her head as she choked out a sob.

 _John Garvie._ The name was unfamiliar to him, but it was now written with a permanent marker on the wall of one room in his Mind Palace. He would not forget.

_And God help Mr Garvie. He's going to need it._

* * *

Sherlock stood in the middle of the room with his hands on his hips surveying the carnage that was Rose's living space. _Good God,_ he thought. _No wonder she wanted me to come around much later._

Rose had to cut her visit short that morning. The morons at Roches had still not found the invoices for the MacFarlane account and things were getting desperate. Sherlock hadn't minded, since he had an invitation to visit Rose at Leinster Gardens that evening. She wasn't due home until after six, and she'd asked Sherlock to come around for dinner—sometime after eight, she'd specified, because she had to tidy up a bit.

 _A bit,_ Sherlock thought humourlessly. This was the home of somebody who had clearly given up. Clean washing spilled from the dryer. _No thoughts about saving on her utility bills then._ She'd rummaged through the clothing each day to find something to wear but hadn't taken the time to put the rest away. There were dirty clothes dropped onto the floor in a trail leading to the bathroom. _No mystery there_. Used dishes littered almost every available surface and the aroma of Rose's self-medication hung thickly in the air. Sherlock examined the ashtray on her coffee table. The odd well-formed roach lay amongst Rose's woeful attempts. So her toking friend had called round a couple of times at least, he concluded.

Sherlock sighed and shrugged out of his coat and jacket. _Best get to it then._

He opened both the sliding door to the balcony and adjacent window, thankful that the late afternoon downpour had eased a little. Rose's flat could do with a quick airing out, he thought, but she'd really need to get the furnishings and upholstery steam-cleaned before her next inspection by the property manager.

Sherlock swiftly picked up all the rubbish lying about, then rolled up his shirt sleeves and set to work on the dirty dishes. He identified several plates and bowls that belonged to a set he'd seen before, but not in Rose's kitchen cabinets. _Of course,_ he recalled, and he smiled to himself. _Looks like Ms Small has been taking care of Rose's meals._

Sherlock rarely cleaned up after himself in his own flat, but that didn't mean he had no idea how to go about it. In Baker Street, his used tea cups disappeared as swiftly as a fresh cup appeared. It was a mystery he'd never thought to solve, and why would he? He long suspected that Mrs Hudson was the culprit, but he really didn't care to find out. As long as it continued to happen, he was happy.

After Sherlock had finished in the living and kitchen areas, he strode into Rose's bedroom and glanced about. It wasn't too bad, just clothing on the floor. Sherlock scooped up a handful and swiftly sorted them into clean and dirty. He was surprised to find his own dressing gown amongst the pile. A quick sniff of his gown had him conclude that Rose had been wearing it. The mixed scents immediately reminded him of her—coconut-scented soap and apple-pear shampoo. The idea that she'd missed him to this extent warmed his heart.

Bedroom done, so that just left the bathroom.

Sherlock found that the flat had been aired out enough and the temperature was rapidly dropping with the open door and window. He closed both before he commenced tackling the bathroom. It wasn't too bad either, with a few clothes discarded here and there. But Sherlock's heart was wrenched from his chest when he noticed the bubbling of the paint work on the cornices above the shower—damage usually caused by an excessive amount of steam.

He sighed deeply. Rose was normally very efficient with her water usage, but evidently she had taken to having prolonged showers, as hot as she could stand it, to cleanse herself most probably.

Sherlock stood in the doorway of the bathroom with his fists clenched, willing himself to calm down. Was it possible to feel retrospectively protective? _The things I could do to that pervert,_ Sherlock thought darkly, _and then the evidence I could subsequently hide to exclude me from the list of suspects..._

He'd spent the better part of his day researching the prick, in between solving a case for Lestrade via Skype, and another for a private client over a series of emails.

John Garvie was the current member for Rockwell South, a lack-lustre constituency in which the man himself had lived as a lad, and returned to in his adult life. He was married, and he and his wife of twenty-two years had one daughter, the apple of her father's eye, apparently. He enjoyed a round of golf ever third Sunday of the month, competed in the charity celebrity bake-off every June, and half-walked, half-jogged 5km with his daughter every Saturday morning. He also liked to pay a call-girl to dress up in the same type of school uniform that his daughter wore. But that last little snippet was not to be found on any website that Sherlock had visited. He had obtained that piece of information from the young woman who had sat on his couch, sobbing against his chest while he attempted to comfort her.

And Garvie was a reformed alcoholic. This information could only be as current as two years ago, because according to Rose, his preferences included getting drunk on whiskey, snorting a line or two of coke, and sexually abusing his human sex toy. More whiskey, more coke, perhaps take photos of the aforementioned sex toy in humiliating positions dressed in a school uniform and then pass out. It was the passing out that Rose looked forward to the most. It meant the end of the abuse and the opportunity to delete the photos of herself from the wanker's phone.

Sherlock's homicidal musings were interrupted by a sharp rap on the front door.

 _Rose?_ He quickly glanced at his watch. It was just after six, so she was due home at any minute, but of course she wouldn't knock on her own door. _Idiot._

Still lost in his own thoughts, Sherlock wrenched open the front door and was momentarily thrown to find a young man standing outside, whose expressions mirrored his own—surprise, followed by suspicion.

_Male, early thirties, hair—initially a crew cut, but it's been three weeks since it was last cut. Plain shirt, sports jacket, jeans—all hardly worn. Civilian clothes then because he's clearly a military man, on leave. Deeply tanned. A two year deployment._

In the two seconds it took for Sherlock to deduce the visitor, the young man stuttered out a "Rose? Does Rose... ah... still live here?"

 _The ex-boyfriend,_ Sherlock thought with a sinking heart.

"She's at work," he found himself replying. "Should be finished soo—"

At that moment Rose rounded the corner of the stairwell and stopped abruptly at the sight of the two significant men in her life sizing each other up.

 _Oh fuck_ , thought Rose. But then she immediately exclaimed, "Jimmy!" to the man nearest her, and quickly embraced the soldier, planting a kiss on his cheek. She swiftly pulled away and glanced nervously at Sherlock.

"Sherlock... James," she said indicating each man in turn.

The soldier and the Consulting Detective briskly shook hands, with James saying, "All right, mate?"

"I thought we were meeting at the pub?" Rose quickly asked.

"Sorry, Rose. That's me taxi downstairs. Me gran's fading fast so I have to catch the train tonight. I just want a quick word if that's all right? I need to have a fag before I get back into the cab. Come downstairs?"

Rose moved towards her door, where Sherlock had stood back a little and had opened it wider.

"Oh, you can smoke..." Rose paused while her eyes quickly scanned her living room. "… out on the balcony," she finished, concluding that her flat was no longer a smoker's haven. "It's a bit wet out."

"Oh, cheers, yeah," James answered, nodding to Sherlock as he followed Rose inside.

Sherlock closed the door behind him, as Rose lead James over to the sliding door to the balcony. She opened it for him, and said, "I'll be out in a sec. Just getting an ashtray."

James said "Cheers," again, lighting up as he disappeared outside. Rose slid the door shut, and hurried over to Sherlock, who she noticed was pulling on his jacket.

She grabbed a surprised Sherlock by his lapels, and perched on her toes, pressing her lips to his. He returned her kiss with a great deal less enthusiasm than she possessed. When she pulled back, she said, "Thank you. You're amazing!"

"What?"

"This. My flat. I can't believe you cleaned up!"

"Oh," Sherlock responded, feeling less like a third wheel now that Rose had kissed him. "Sorry for coming around too early. I didn't realise you already had plans."

"He just rang me an hour ago," Rose gushed. "I thought I was meeting him round the corner for a pint, then I'd have time to come back home and cook you dinner."

"You don't need to cook me dinner."

"I invited you! And you're not leaving!"

Sherlock shot an uncomfortable look toward the balcony. "I... should let you catch up with your... friend."

"No, it's not a catch up. You heard him; his taxi's downstairs. We'll just be a minute," Rose said, speaking quickly because she was nervous about her ex and her current boyfriend being her flat at the same time. And she wasn't even sure if Sherlock _was_ her boyfriend, so there was that. "He probably just wants to check up on me, I bet, because his cousin saw me in the cloakroom of the Rendezvous the other month. Please don't go."

She lightly touched Sherlock's cheek, and fixed him with an encouraging smile.

Sherlock wasn't quite sure what this new intense emotion was, but it wasn't pleasant. Here existed a man, not a former client, with whom Rose had had sex—a man she'd shared a bed with, exchanged kisses and cuddles, and probably lay with her head on his bare chest and he never once had to complain about her hair. He was here, standing on Rose's balcony smoking in _Sherlock's_ smoking spot.

He knew there weren't any intense residual feelings left between the pair; he could tell that from their body language. Still, he didn't want to remain in here, while they were out there, on _his_ balcony, _not catching up_. Sherlock couldn't even busy himself tidying up inside, because he'd already cleaned Rose's flat within an inch of its life.

So he had to leave.

He settled on a solution as he looked past Rose to the kitchen bench. He'd placed Tonya Small's dishes there after he'd washed them.

"I'll just take those back upstairs to Ms Small," he said, indicating the pile with a nod of his head.

Rose glanced around at the kitchen to see what Sherlock was talking about. She turned back to him, looking both puzzled and slightly impressed. "How did you know...?"

"How do I know anything?" he asked, shrugging lightly. "I notice these things."

He gave Rose a half-smile then brushed past her to retrieve the crockery.

"Don't be long," she said sweetly, but Sherlock could detect the underlying nervousness.

 _She's worried that I'm upset about her ex-boyfriend stopping by,_ he thought curiously. _And she's correct, but I don't know_ exactly _why I am. This man is from her past._

_But so is Garvie._

Sherlock's mind travelled the realms of darkness once more and he quickly planted a kiss on Rose's cheek before his expression changed to match his thoughts.

"I won't," he murmured before sweeping out of the flat.

* * *

He could hear Ms Small through her door bidding farewell to her darling babies, which puzzled Sherlock momentarily until her door was swung open by a young girl who Sherlock knew lived in the flat next door. She held both Tonya Small's excitable dogs on leashes.

"Oh, excuse me," she said to Sherlock as she squeezed past him.

Sherlock gave a quick knock on the door—the action preventing it from closing. Tonya was sitting on the sofa along a wall adjacent to the door, and she had already looked up in interest when she heard her young neighbour's remark to Sherlock.

"Mr Holmes!" she exclaimed in delight.

"Oh, no need to get up," Sherlock hastened to say, observing that Tonya had one leg elevated on a foot stool, with a small blanket covering the lower half. "I'm just returning these."

"My darling man, don't be a stranger. You must come in and have a cup of tea."

To Sherlock's surprise, Tonya stood up, bearing an equal amount of weight on both legs. She placed the novel she was reading onto a side-table and fluffed out her hair.

"I don't want to intrude on your leisure time," he said, indicating the Nabokov book.

"Oh, nonsense," she said, reaching out to relieve Sherlock of the crockery. "I've already read it a dozen times." She strode, without any obvious injury, into the kitchen, calling back, "It's the story of my life."

Sherlock glanced at the book title and frowned. _Lolita._ It meant nothing to him. Although, it may make an interesting read if it was about a cannibal, he mused, and he followed Ms Small to the kitchen.

"Did you... injure your leg?" Sherlock asked tentatively, then immediately kicked himself for discarding the absence of a limp, in favour of having observed Tonya elevating the aforementioned limb, coupled with the requirement to get a neighbour's daughter to walk her dogs for her.

"Mr Holmes, you're losing your touch," Tonya commented, with an accompanying devilish grin. "I'm helping Miranda earn money to buy herself a soccer ball. Her mother said I don't need help walking my babies because I enjoy them so much, so I've feigned an injury just so the dear girl has a reason to help me out."

Sherlock tutted. He hated being wrong, and he loathed making a deduction not based on all the evidence. He should've known better.

Ms Small busied herself organising the tea things as Sherlock looked about, trying to find evidence that Rose may have visited the Clarence House Cannibal.

As if reading his thoughts, Tonya remarked, without turning around, "So you and my Rosebud have reconciled, yes?"

Sherlock tried to analyse the meaning behind Tonya's words. "I wasn't aware Rose and I had anything to reconcile," he said simply.

Tonya turned around and gave him a withering look. "Of course. It's all in Rose's head, the poor darling. You shouldn't feel at all responsible for her torments. Please make yourself comfortable," she finished, gesturing to the tiny kitchen dining table that had, on a monthly basis, been placed in her living room for her poker games.

Her expression and her words were at odds, Sherlock thought, as he reluctantly sat down. Tonya turned back to her tea preparations, but Sherlock was left thinking that perhaps Ms Small was somehow suggesting he _should_ feel responsible.

"How much has Rose confided in you?" he asked with trepidation.

"Why all of it! How else is she going to heal?" Tonya placed the tea cups down onto the table as she spoke. "That under-qualified counsellor had suggested that our darling girl sit in a circle amongst prostitutes and drug addicts and share her experiences dating the most famous detective in all of the United Kingdom. Imagine the scandal!"

Panic took a grip on Sherlock's heart. "Did she talk about me?"

"Not in the group counselling session, darling," Ms Small replied, taking a seat across from Sherlock. "But she needs to talk about you all the same."

"But it's not about me."

Tonya clucked her tongue. "It's about _all of you_. It has to be, otherwise our beautiful Rose will wilt before our very eyes."

"All of... _whom_?"

"My darling Mr Holmes," Ms Small said, lacing her fingers together in front of her. "Let me tell you what I think."

* * *

Sherlock had calmed down long enough to knock on Rose's door without bashing it in. Rose pulled it open, and chuckled when she saw that it was Sherlock. She hastened back to attend to the omelette that was forming nicely in the frying pan.

"Did you forget your key?" she called back.

Sherlock was thankful he was able to rearrange his features into a look of impassivity. "Yes. It was in my coat," he replied, indicating his Belstaff that lay draped over the back of an armchair. There had been no point in wearing it when he was only going upstairs to the fifth floor.

"You were a while," Rose remarked, with her back to Sherlock.

Sherlock breathed out slowly to steady himself.

"Did she make you a cup of tea?"

"Yes." _And she also made me angry._

Sherlock entered the kitchen area and leant against the cabinets, watching Rose pour egg mixture into the frying pan to cook the second omelette. He hadn't spent all that time in Tonya Small's company. He had left part-way through her lecture and had subsequently paced the corridor outside Rose's flat for a good deal longer.

_My darling Mr Holmes, let me tell you what I think..._

Sherlock tried not to dwell on Tonya's words. He'd get upset again if he did. He just wanted to pull Rose into his arms, hold her in a tight embrace, and say sorry repeatedly.

"Hope you like omelettes," Rose asked, her expression warm and her demeanour much more relaxed. The underlying tension in her mannerisms that Sherlock had observed before he had left earlier, and while her ex-boyfriend was smoking out on the balcony, had completely disappeared.

Sherlock just shrugged and smiled minutely.

"Just eat the salad if it's too much for you," she added, plating up the second omelette. "There. Do you want to bring cutlery over?" she asked, taking both plates to the dining table.

Sherlock cleared his throat, and found himself digging into a kitchen drawer for two knives and two forks. He desperately wanted to bring himself back to the present, but his mind kept dwelling on his conversation with Ms Small.

"How was..." The name had escaped him already.

"James? Fine," Rose replied as they both took their places at the table. "He _had_ heard that I was working in a strip club. Though it didn't take much to reassure him that I was only working as a cloakroom attendant and that I was also employed in two other more respectable establishments. Nice to know he still cares."

"And he never found out that you..." Sherlock couldn't even bring himself to say the words out loud, now that he had been subjected to Tonya's thoughts on the matter.

"That I had sex with men for money? No, not at all."

They ate in silence for a minute or two, with Sherlock delving into his memory banks for anything he had on Rose's boyfriend at the time he was seeing her. He recalled Rose saying that the man had broken up with her because he suspected she was cheating on him. So the army soldier was sharp enough to notice something had been going on while he had been posted abroad. What kind of girlfriend did that make Rose?

Sherlock shook those thoughts loose. Who was he to judge, he thought morosely. He had known that Rose had a boyfriend back then, but all Sherlock was interested in was forcing his paid sex worker to enjoy herself while he fucked her, just to feed his own ego. He remembered them meeting in a coffee shop, Rose fiddling with the pendant that was obviously a present from her boyfriend, and then threatening to have nothing to do with her unless she agreed to his terms. What a bastard he was for not even considering her situation or her feelings. Perhaps Ms Small was right after all.

"… but I was never going to be good enough for his family."

Rose had been elaborating on her relationship with Mr James Dodd, the army corporal, and Sherlock had tuned out.

"They would rather I be the dutiful housewife who stayed at home washing nappies and keeping the hearth warm for when my man returned from his posting."

Sherlock swallowed a particularly crunchy piece of lettuce. He found the omelette too greasy for his palate, and his stomach was already churning oddly, the opinions of Tonya Small sitting undigested there.

"So why couldn't Corporal Dodd support you during your studies?" he asked, while he idly pushed a slice of omelette around. _Instead of you having to sell your body to the likes of me?_

Rose lay down her fork on the side of her plate, and folded her arms in front of her. "We weren't living together. He would've preferred me to have lived at home with my parents until we were married, and not flat-sharing or studying at all. What would a good wife and mother need of a career anyway? I should've been earning a small amount of pocket money working in a respectable fabric store, like Jimmy's mother did, and the other part of my time devoted to volunteering in Christian charities."

Sherlock placed his own cutlery onto his plate as well, and said calmly, "But instead you found yourself earning fifty pounds a throw, sucking cock in a North London brothel."

It should've come as no surprise that Rose was going to burst into tears at that comment. Subtlety was not Sherlock's specialty, and he was feeling quite bitter after his little chat with The Clarence House Cannibal.

Rose sobbed into her hands as Sherlock pushed his chair away from the table and stood up, his heart in his mouth.

 _You idiot,_ he thought fiercely. He had meant it as a joke, sort of, a throwaway comment, using Rose's sex worker vernacular. Of course, Sherlock now realised that Rose spoke in that manner less frequently these days. He made his way around the table, and placed an arm around her shoulders. Leaning in, he said, "That was a stupid thing to say. I'm sorry, Rose."

A day full of tears and apologies, it seemed. But Sherlock was surprised when Rose began trembling, not through tears, but with silent laughter. Such a sudden change in mood confused him and he straightened up, dropping his arm from Rose's shoulders. She lifted her head from her hands and rose from her chair so she could wrap her arms around him.

"I'm the one being stupid," she sniffed, burying her face into his neck.

Sherlock banded his arms around her and held her firmly. Alternating feelings of remorse and self-loathing churned through him, and now he had the added guilt of upsetting Rose through the issuing of another thoughtless comment perched precariously on top.

When Rose drew back, Sherlock furrowed his brow, and studied Rose's tear-stained eyes.

Twining her fingers through Sherlock's curls, she said, "I need you around me to state the obvious sometimes, just to make me get over myself."

Sherlock smiled wanly and remarked, "John always said I had lousy timing though."

"Don't worry about it. I'm fine, really," she said, pressing her forehead against Sherlock's when he bent his head down to hers. Sherlock briefly closed his eyes and breathed in apples and pears, her shampoo, and his pulse raced once more.

Rose planted a couple of tiny kisses on his lips, and began gently caressing the nape of his neck as she whispered, "I feel so much better around you. I don't know why I ever thought staying away from you was going to help me heal."

Sherlock's stomach dropped at Rose's use of the same word that Tonya had spoken.

"Was Ms Small helping you _heal_?" he asked, trying hard to keep the bitterness from creeping back into his words.

Sherlock carefully scrutinised Rose's expression before she responded with a shrug.

"Tonya appears to be a good listener," she began, running her hands down Sherlock's chest and dropping her gaze as she spoke. "But she already has her own opinions about things. It's very hard to convince her otherwise." Rose eyes met Sherlock's again. "I just used her as a sounding board really."

 _Spoken like a diplomat,_ Sherlock thought. He had heard most, if not all, of Ms Small's uncensored opinions on the matter, and Rose's apparent friend and neighbour was practically gleeful when informing the detective about _that_ group counselling session.

When Rose began fiddling with Sherlock's shirt buttons, he knew she was uncomfortable about something. He gently placed a hand over one of hers, and she stopped what she was doing and made eye contact with Sherlock again. She knew he was silently prompting her to continue talking, as he had done at Baker Street when she was struggling to tell him about her experiences with Garvie.

"Tonya's fixated on something that happened in a group counselling session I attended," Rose said.

Sherlock tutted and sighed. "I know, Rose," he said softly, interrupting her narrative once he realised the subject matter. "Ms Small told me all about it."

Rose gaped at Sherlock. She was appalled that Tonya had taken it upon herself to tell him about that incident.

"But you know that's not what I think at all!" Rose exclaimed, pulling out of Sherlock's embrace out of frustration.

 _She's dating an ex-client,_ Tonya had casually commented about the call-girl Rose had befriended at the end of the group therapy session. _So now he's just getting sex for free. She must be delusional not to see that._

At the time, Sherlock had no problems seeing through the comment, and had remarked to Ms Small that he and Rose did not have a 'sex worker and client' relationship anymore. The Clarence House Cannibal had clucked her tongue again, and then sought to enlighten Sherlock about what her own research had uncovered.

Ms Small had taken an interest in Rose's breakdown and her subsequent trouble in acknowledging her previous occupation, so the older woman began researching what she could do to help her young friend. In doing so, she came upon a group who called themselves _The Anti-SeXXploitation Project_ , or The ASXX. The group existed to raise awareness of what they called a spectrum of abuse against women, which included those in the adult entertainment industry. Quite simply, Tonya had told Sherlock, if men weren't prepared to demand and purchase sex, there would be no call for prostitutes.

"You, Mr Holmes, you and men like that hideous MP Mr Garvie, have decided that it is perfectly acceptable to use women for your own sexual gratification. Whether or not the sex is consensual, and the prostitute believes they are working in the sex industry by choice, prostitution is an exploitation of women by men. It is not valid occupation. It is not _work_ , and women should not see it as a means to survive. It is you who are perpetuating a long established practice of violence against women. You exploited the fact that Rose _needed the money._ You are no better than Mr Garvie, in my opinion."

It was then that Sherlock icily thanked Ms Small for the tea, and stormed out of her flat, his heart beating furiously. For once his wits failed him, for he had been shocked into silence. He was unable to go back to Rose's flat at that point. He needed to take the time to process Ms Small's words and to calm the fuck down. He barely managed the latter, and still had a long way to go on the former.

Sherlock was somehow grateful that Ms Small had not introduced Rose to the principles of The ASXX just yet. Before launching into her full tirade against _men like Sherlock,_ Tonya had said that once Rose had gained back her self-confidence, she would then talk to her about the bigger picture.

 _Over my dead body,_ Sherlock had thought at the time.

Ms Small's words continued to swim around Sherlock's head. Rose was leaning against the kitchen bench and had crossed her arms in front of her. Sherlock could tell she was fuming about Tonya taking liberties with telling Sherlock about the incident at the group counselling session. That was the least of his worries.

"I don't see you as a prostitute anymore," he said tiredly. "I've said that before."

"I know," Rose said, reaching out and grasping Sherlock's hand, gently pulling him toward her. "And I definitely don't think of you as a client."

But Sherlock still felt ill at ease. He didn't care for Ms Small's under-handed comment about the call-girl that was really directed at him and Rose. It was _the bigger picture_ that had gutted him.

Perhaps he shouldn't have viewed Rose as a prostitute at all. Ever. He should never have gone to a brothel, should never have offered her an enticing sum of money to visit him in Baker Street, nor compelled her to lower her defences and experience sex with him as an equal partner, for there was no such thing according to Tonya and the ASXX.

Was he really no better than John Garvie?

 _You were a gentleman. You respected me_ , Rose had once said, and Sherlock had believed it, embraced it, in fact. Were Rose's views so slanted that it took a monster to make Sherlock look comparatively respectful?

"Don't worry about what Tonya says," Rose said softly, unaware of Sherlock's internal battle. "Why are we listening to her opinions anyway? She has a fetish for eating people."

Rose broke into a chuckle, and she wound her arms around Sherlock's neck again. He pressed a kiss to her cheek, and tightly embraced her.

 _Fuck you, Tonya Small, John Garvie, and the rest of the fucking world for making me believe I don't deserve this,_ Sherlock thought, fuming in silence. _This. Whatever this is._


	28. Traditional, But Not Obligatory

 

Sherlock had almost drifted off again when the constant babble of the movie on telly abruptly ended, rousing him in its absence.

"I was watching that," he said to Rose through half-slitted eyes.

Rose laughed as she dropped the remote control onto the coffee table. "No you weren't. You were actually sleeping. In fact, I'm sure I could detect the faint sound of a snore."

"You heard no such thing," Sherlock retorted, sitting up. He sleepily watched Rose for a few seconds before asking, "So, did you find your... thing?" He gestured vaguely toward Rose's dining table, where she was currently stacking up notes and assignment papers from her earlier years of study.

The former student had been trying to find her notes introducing the topic of forensic psychology that they had covered briefly during her second year, so she could be prepared for an interview once she submitted an application to the London Met University. The post-grad course commenced the following September. Rose wished she had thought of the idea earlier in the year, so she could be well on her way, but then again, it had taken the return of Sherlock Holmes to nudge her in the right direction.

Sherlock thought he'd keep her company by quietly watching another late night crime-thriller movie, but once again he predicted who the killer was in the first ten minutes, then promptly fell asleep.

"Ah, yes, I did find it eventually," Rose replied. Her eyes danced in amusement, causing Sherlock to mentally shake himself to rid his sleepy mind of its thick soupiness.

"But?"

"But then I got distracted and started reading all my papers, finishing up with the one about a brilliant man who sought the services of a prostitute to lose his virginity."

Sherlock hung his head briefly, raking one hand through his curls, and making a concerted effort to push Tonya Small's words to the furthest rooms of his Mind Palace. He heaved a sigh then slowly met Rose's gaze once more. "A good read, was it?"

"I got quite a few things wrong, as it turns out."

"Such as?"

"Just a couple of personality traits," Rose said, as she finished her paper sorting and began making her way toward the sofa. "The subject of my study is much nicer once you get to know him properly."

Sherlock shook off the last remnants of sleep as he rose. It had been a long day, but Rose's slap earlier was now a faded memory. He was keen to keep their interactions pleasant and let Rose take the lead. Catching the subtle meaning behind her remark, he decided to play along. "Really?" he said, watching in interest as Rose approached him.

"And he's capable of so much more."

She stopped in front of Sherlock, and she was relieved to find a degree of warmth emanating from those sometimes piercing grey eyes. She reached up, gently resting her hands on his chest, her expression bright, her arched eyebrows challenging him.

Sherlock's voice took on a gruffness he usually reserved for their horizontal encounters. "You need to cite specific examples."

The timbre was not lost on Rose. She slid her hands upwards to Sherlock's shoulders, tilted her face toward him, and lingered there, her lips only a breath away from his. "For example," she whispered.

Sherlock dipped his head, meeting Rose's kiss halfway. He felt her body soften and meld into his own. Using a phenomenal degree of patience he didn't know he possessed, Sherlock kept his response light but full of tenderness.

When Rose eased out of their kiss, Sherlock tried to keep the disappointment from his eyes.

"And that's a direct quote," she said softly against his lips, before she stole another brief kiss from the detective.

Rose let her hands drift down Sherlock's pyjama shirt, and as he dropped his hands from her back, she linked fingers with him. Gently guiding him toward her bedroom, she offered him a shy smile. She hadn't decided how far she was comfortable taking this. They hadn't had sex in weeks, and Rose couldn't predict how she would react when either she became aroused, or she became aware of Sherlock's desire.

Sherlock was of the same mind. He had already indicated that morning that he didn't want to have sex with Rose; he just wanted to be near her. He halted outside the bathroom, saying, "I just need to go. Won't be long." He offered Rose a reassuring smile, which she returned just as amiably.

When Sherlock entered Rose's bedroom a few moments later, she was already underneath the quilt, lying on her side, facing the middle of the bed, with the room illuminated by the warm glow of her bedside lamp. Sherlock slipped in beside her, but remained on his back, turning only his head toward her. He reasoned that if he lay on his side and Rose pressed her body close to his, she would feel his burgeoning erection. He tried hard not to anticipate having sex with Rose, but the more he strove to convince his body it was not going to happen, the more it reacted in the opposite manner.

_Stupid physiological responses._

Rose had watched quietly as Sherlock made himself comfortable next to her.

"Thank you," she whispered as he turned his head toward her.

"For what?"

"For being here."

Sherlock gave Rose a faint smile.  _Thank you for being here, and not immediately jumping on top of me, you mean,_  he thought ruefully. Then he cleared his throat and said, quite quickly, "I'm content to lie next to you, but so you don't get the wrong idea, you should know that I have an erection and it's nothing to do with wanting to have sex with you right now."

To his surprise, Rose chuckled lightly. She reached for the hand that lay casually across his stomach and gave it a reassuring squeeze.

"I think it has everything to do with wanting to have sex with me right now."

"No, no," Sherlock countered. "It has everything to do with having sex with you later. Much, much later. And it's going to be very good. My body is merely reacting to such a thought. It will go away once I'm asleep." Sherlock used his other hand to give a rather contrived couple of pats on Rose's hand. "Goodnight, Rose."

Rose withdrew her hand but slid over to plant a kiss on Sherlock's cheek.

"'Night, Sherlock," she whispered. She rolled onto her side, facing the opposite direction before reaching over and switching off her bedside lamp.

* * *

She'd never seen Sherlock Holmes fast asleep before. The brilliant man was usually awake long before Rose. All the tension had left his face, his lips were full and his breathing was steady and light. Rose watched him for a moment longer, an ache growing inside her, one of longing and hope coiling around a feeling of calmness and serenity. She resisted the urge to lie down again next to him, and to tangle her fingers in his curls. Instead, she bent over him and kissed his temple.

"What... what?" he said, a little groggily as he stirred.

Rose had to quickly straighten up to avoid being the recipient of a headbutt as Sherlock immediately sat bolt upright.

"What happened?" he demanded, then he eyed her clothing critically.

"It's okay," Rose reassured him. "I was just kissing you goodbye."

"Why? What happened? Why are you dressed?" He vigorously ruffled his hair before turning to his wristwatch that he'd placed on the bedside table before he went to sleep. "What time is it?"

"I've got to go to work. You slept in."

"Slept in? I don't sleep in."

Sherlock swung his legs from the bed as Rose watched him in amusement.

"You did this morning," she said, giving him room to stand up. "You must've needed it. I have to go. You can go back to bed."

Sherlock furrowed his brow. "I'm awake now. Why would I go back to bed?"

But there was a truth to her words—Sherlock knew that. He must've needed it. He had no longer lain awake as he had each night for the past few weeks, wondering why Rose wouldn't see him. No waking early, hoping today would not only bring forth a challenging case, but also bring his Rose back to him. He lay in Rose's bed, next to Rose; his mind was at ease, and he had slept.

Rose couldn't help but smile at Sherlock's petulant expression. He looked like a small boy who was told it was time to wake up and get ready for school.

"I really have to go," she repeated, before giving Sherlock a quick kiss on the lips.

"No. Wait," Sherlock said, placing his hand on the small of Rose's back to keep her there longer. "You clearly have no idea what a goodbye kiss entails."

He set about showing her—soft and tentative at first, then deepening it by degrees, depending on the response one received from one's partner. Seductive, explorative and tender.

Rose had never before tasted a kiss so sweet, and her eyes remained closed for a moment longer when Sherlock eased back.

"Goodbye, Rose. See you later." A tiny smile tugged at one corner of his mouth. Sherlock was quite pleased with himself.

* * *

"Christmas."

The distasteful word was uttered on a bitter exhale by the Consulting Detective, and all hope left Rose's heart. "I was thinking of going back to Tibet for the entirety of the so-called _holiday season,_ " he continued. "I'm being pulled three-ways, Rose. Mrs Hudson wants to do a thing back at Baker Street, John and Mary want to start a new tradition at their place, and my parents—dear God, someone murder me now—want me to accompany them to what my mother calls, 'Possibly Uncle Rudy's last Christmas' in Dover.  _Dover_ , Rose. Everyone thinks there's something special about me being back just in time for Christmas.

"You know, there's a tiny monastery off a beaten track along the road to the Tibetan side of Mount Everest, just out of Shigatse. Practically impassable at this time of year, but I know a Tibetan goat herder who can get hold of a jeep—mad as a March Hare and blind in one eye. The breakaway sect of Buddhist warrior monks who reside there would be only too happy to put me up for a while and escape this madness. I may even make this an annual trip. And it'll give me a chance to donate something back to the monastery without it ending up in the coffers of some government official."

There was silence while Sherlock closed his eyes, and steepled his fingertips to his lips as if his mind had already commenced the pilgrimage to the Himalayas.

Rose sighed and continued with the washing up. She had brought up the subject of Christmas because she was hoping to invite Sherlock along to spend it with her and her parents for a few days. Part of her plan to make amends with her parents was to spend Christmas with them, and that meant staying with her mother's aunt and cousins in Scotland, where Mr and Mrs Sulford had travelled the last two Christmases. Mrs Sulford had insisted on Rose joining them now that mother and daughter had reconciled.

Rose didn't want Sherlock to think she was abandoning him over the period, as it was her intention to be away for two whole weeks. She thought he may like to join her for some of the time, but she did wonder about Sherlock and holidays. Did he even take them, other than to escape family at this time of year?

"I'm going up to Scotland with my mum and dad for Christmas," she said eventually, looking over at Sherlock's immobile form on her sofa.

"Scotland," he repeated, meditatively, his eyes still closed.

Rose turned back to the sink to rinse the last dish when she became aware of Sherlock's presence right beside her. She almost jumped in fright.

"Why Scotland?" he asked through narrow eyes.

Rose stifled a giggle when she saw the intensity of his gaze.

"My mum's family are there. They live in Perth," she replied. "And... I've been having lunch with my mum. It would be nice to celebrate Christmas with them again. It's been years."

" _Family_ ," Sherlock said, with venom in his voice. He drifted away, shaking his head, and disappeared into the bathroom.

Rose wiped down the benches and the dining table, and hoped Sherlock would be okay with her heading north. Given his rant about being in demand for Christmas this year and his obvious dislike of family gatherings, she decided she wouldn't even bother inviting him to spend any time with her.

She also wondered what bedtime would bring. She had to applaud Sherlock's patience. He had been spending every night with her for the last few days, since she had abandoned her attempts at self-therapy with her sporadic visits to Baker Street. And each night, he'd kiss her as if he was completely content to taste and sample, and not devour. He would whisper, "Goodnight," then roll over onto his side away from her.

He no longer woke before her, and it seemed that he actually preferred being woken up by Rose's kisses, before she left for the morning shift at Roches Entertainment. He allowed Rose to take her time rousing him, planting soft kisses all over until his face broke into a broad, sleepy grin.

As it was Saturday night, Rose had made herself an early dinner (Sherlock had declined of course), and was about to get changed for a shift at the Rendezvous strip club.

Sherlock dashed out of the bathroom, and grabbed at his jacket, which was draped over an armchair.

"I'll share a taxi with you," he said as Rose passed him on her way to her bedroom. "They can drop me at Baker Street on the way to Shoredi— Why aren't you dressed?" he asked abruptly, only just noticing Rose's attire.

"Because I didn't want to eat in my uniform, and risk spilling soup on my white shirt," Rose called from her room.

She had shed her dressing gown and was just fastening her shirt buttons when Sherlock approached, and leant on the doorframe.

"What time do you finish?" he asked.

"Twelve. Should be home by one," she replied, pulling her skirt from its hanger.

"I'll meet you there, and grab a cab home with you."

"What will you be doing in Shoreditch?"

Sherlock shrugged. "I'll call by after I finish at Bart's. Save you catching the tube by yourself at such a late hour."

"I usually get a lift. I'll be fine thanks, Sherlock."

Sherlock folded his arms in front of him and brooded for a moment as Rose pulled on her skirt and zipped herself up.

"And when are you leaving for Scotland?"

Rose finished tucking in her shirt and smiled at Sherlock. She had a feeling he wouldn't let the subject drop so readily. "In a week," she replied. "We fly out on the 16th."

Rose approached Sherlock and lightly touched his arm in a gesture of reassurance. "And I'll be back on New Year's Eve."

"Two weeks?" Sherlock asked, his tone laced with disappointment.

Rose nodded. "How long will you be in Tibet for?"

Sherlock sighed, as if he had just resigned himself to the idea that was only in its infancy a few minutes ago. Now there would be no reason at all to stay in London over Christmas, and he had been thinking that the alternative to hiding in the Himalayas would be to hide out in Leinster Gardens. With Rose. He didn't have the foresight to realise that she may actually have her own plans for Christmas.

"A week at least, probably two," he replied. "I'll need a few days to acclimatise. I don't want to risk altitude sickness by ascending too rapidly."

Rose laughed lightly as they both left her bedroom. "I can't imagine you trekking through the Himalayas and living in a monastery."

Sherlock grabbed his coat and scarf from the back of a chair, while Rose sought her handbag and shoes.

"I travelled all around Eurasia in search of Moriarty's network," he explained, pulling on his coat. "It really was a global enterprise. One of his drug smugglers working her way from India to China thought she could hide out in Tibet."

"I've never even crossed the Channel," Rose murmured as she also drew on her coat.

"Why don't you come with me?" Sherlock asked suddenly.

Rose paused by the front door, as Sherlock drew nearer, slowly wrapping his scarf around his neck.

"To... Tibet?" she asked. Rose's heart-rate quickened. Sherlock was asking her to go away with him—for Christmas. Her parents were paying her airfare to Scotland, and accommodation was taken care of. There was no way she could afford this, and she was reluctant to allow Sherlock to pay her way, if that was on the cards.

Sherlock smiled broadly. "It will be fun! And you can imagine the sunsets! I hope you'll take to eating Yak's butter. You get used to it after a while. There really isn't a huge variety in the cuisine..."

Sherlock tapered off when he realised Rose wasn't reacting as joyously as he'd hoped.

"Or not... stupid idea," he muttered, opening the front door for them. "Government bureaucracy for travelling to Tibet is horrendous. I'm only able to do it at a pinch because of my brother. You probably won't even get a permit."

"I don't even have a passport," Rose added, preceding Sherlock through the door. "And I can't afford a trip abroad at such short notice." She turned back to the detective, her face softening. "Thanks anyway, Sherlock."

Sherlock latched the door and pulled it shut behind him. He knew what was happening here. Rose's absence from his life at a time when he had come to depend on her emotionally had made him react in this needy manner. He had to step back and reassess. "Some other time," he said warmly, returning Rose's gaze with one of affection.

Rose stepped up to Sherlock and planted a soft kiss on his lips. "That sounds wonderful."

They descended the stairs together with Sherlock still ruminating on the reality of travelling to Tibet, possibly as early as next week, if he didn't want to be left in London without Rose's company. But wait—couldn't he go to Scotland? That would solve two problems: he'd be away from London and the pull of his family and friends, and he'd still be with Rose.

No. He couldn't just invite himself along.  _Don't act needy, remember?_

So... Tibet. He'd have to grovel to his brother to pull some strings, plus have to explain to the annoying arse why he had to go at this time of year. He was sure Mycroft was planning something in the Crimea just so the pompous git himself could avoid the family-do in Dover anyway.

"There's always Budapest in spring," Sherlock said, with a tiny sparkle in his eyes, and Rose's heart fluttered once more as they stepped out onto the ground floor.

Since when did Sherlock Holmes become romantic all of a sudden?

* * *

Rose was expecting to find Sherlock already in her flat when she returned from the club, but she was disappointed to find it empty. All she had thought about for her entire shift was Sherlock and his romantic ideas for trips abroad. It was enough to send her libido soaring, so she had decided that tonight was _the night._

But where was he?

She showered and changed anyway, and busied herself around her flat clad only in her dressing gown. Just the other night, Sherlock had given her an odd look, which he didn't think she saw, when she had climbed into bed wearing pyjamas. He was only familiar with Rose coming to bed in her dressing gown, shedding it when their bedtime antics were to commence. Since the advent of no-sex, she had taken to wearing her tank top and pyjama shorts, thinking it would be cruel to lie next to Sherlock, naked.

Rose stifled a yawn and decided that it was pointless waiting up for him, not knowing where he was or what he was up to.

When Sherlock arrived an hour and a half later, Rose was well and truly asleep. The detective stood in the doorway to her bedroom, trying to deduce the meaning behind the crumpled dressing gown on the floor and a naked Rose beneath the sheets. Was she sleeping naked because he wasn't there, or because she had wanted something to happen tonight? Or maybe she'd just forgotten to dress chastely? Or because she really wanted to have sex with him? Or because her pyjamas were in need of a wash and therefore were in the laundry? Or because being around people in the adult entertainment industry tonight had put her in the mood?

"Are you coming to bed?"

Sherlock snapped out of his reverie, to find both Rose and his penis wide awake.

He cleared his throat and said, in a voice thick with longing, "I'll be back in a minute. I need to have a shower. I smell like a skip bin."

"Why do you smell like a skip bin?" Rose called out sleepily.

"I was rummaging through one," Sherlock shot back as he exited her room.

Rose hugged her pillow, wondering what on earth Sherlock had been doing rummaging through a skip bin in the early hours of the morning. She struggled to keep her eyes open, and it was only the thought of Sherlock making love to her that kept her from falling asleep altogether.

Sherlock returned to Rose's bedroom holding his clothes in one hand and keeping the towel wrapped around his hips with the other. He felt enormously refreshed, but more importantly, he carried the scent of Rose's soap and shampoo on his person, instead of rotten food. He dropped his clothes onto a chair, causing Rose to roll onto her back at the muffled sound.

"Why were you in a skip bin?"

Sherlock hoped the dim lighting in the bedroom was enough to hide the raging erection that the towel failed to conceal.

"Looking for the murder weapon," he said matter-of-factly.

Rose propped herself up on her elbows and shuffled to the head of the bed in an effort to wake-up fully. "Was there a murder?"

Sherlock shot her a look of disdain. "No, Rose. There's a special category of household items called  _murder weapons_. Whether people choose to use them as such is an entirely different matter."

Rose furrowed her brow, not following Sherlock's explanation at all. "What?"

"Sarcasm, Rose."

"Oh," she commented feebly, running a tired hand through her hair."I'm far too sleepy for sarcasm."

"Clearly."

She watched as Sherlock tried to wrestle open the top drawer of her bureau with only one hand. "Do I get a hello kiss?" she asked.

"Let me get dressed first," Sherlock answered, still preoccupied with the drawer.

"You don't have to get dressed. I thought that would've been obvious to you."

Sherlock turned to Rose, his eyes quickly scanning her outline underneath the sheet. "I didn't want to get my hopes up."

A sly grin grew on Rose's face, and she pushed aside the top sheet and slid out of bed. She stood in front of Sherlock completely naked and placed her hand over the one he was using to secure his towel. Arching an eyebrow, she said, "Let go, Sherlock."

"I'm... far too modest."

Rose burst out laughing, causing Sherlock's face to soften, a hint of a smile teasing his lips. "Sherlock Holmes, modest?" she chided. "Let go of the towel."

Sherlock relinquished his hold, giving Rose the opportunity to pull the towel away with a flourish.

"Looks like you have your hopes up already."

"That's... not because of you."

As Rose dropped the towel onto the ground then wound her arms around Sherlock's neck, she whispered, "It better be because of me, mister, and not the contents of the skip bin, otherwise I'm going to have to sort you out good and proper."

Sherlock's initial plans to take Rose slowly and patiently were shelved as Rose made her own intentions very clear. Her mouth sought his, tempted his, teasing a kiss from him before her tongue darted inside when his lips parted. She pressed her hips against Sherlock and he stifled a moan in response to the unexpected pressure.

He had wound his arms around Rose and held her close, his palms flat against the small of her back before his mouth left hers and blazed a trail along her neck to the smooth curve of her shoulders.  _Slow down,_  he told himself as he listened to her tiny sighs of pleasure. It had been far too long. Sherlock didn't know if his impatience was going to ruin it for them both.

Rose shuddered against him, and in a second he had dragged her to the bed. His own self-control was seriously compromised when she gasped his name. _Slow down, you idiot._

Sherlock's mouth navigated lazily across Rose's skin as he endeavoured to pace himself despite her eagerness to please him. He swore when she went down on him; he was far too sensitive for such nonsense, and her light, teasing laughter made him determined to gain the upper hand.

Rose was too quick for him. She straddled him so suddenly, jolting him into bumping his head against the bedhead, that he swore again, but this time in pain.

"For Christ's sake, have you ever done this before?"

Rose laughed, as she delved into the drawer of her bedside table. "Just once or twice," she said, feeling quite out of breath herself. "Sorry."

She retrieved the protection and turned her attention back to Sherlock. He was gazing up at her with a curious expression on his face. The air in the room went still, until there was only the sound of their laboured breathing. Sherlock pulled himself to a sitting position, his eyes not leaving Rose's as she tore open the packet.

"There's no rush," he murmured, with a tender brush of his lips against hers.

"Why?" she sighed.

"Because I'm going to please you," he said, his lips leaving hers and feathering the soft skin along her neck. His voice lowered a notch or two as he spoke. "And that takes time. You deserve so much more than a  _quick fuck_."

Sherlock brought his hands up to cup Rose's face as her breath hitched. His mouth met hers, his tongue skimming her lips until they parted, before Sherlock proceeded to kiss her deeply and thoroughly.

An ache pulsed inside Rose. The solid feel of Sherlock's body, and the warmth of his mouth threatened to undo her. A small sob escaped her and Sherlock withdrew.

"We can stop at any time," he said softly, his hands still framing Rose's face.

Rose shook her head. "No, I'm fine," she whispered back, before bringing her hand up to brush Sherlock's cheek. His eyes were darkened by desire, yet still glistened with affection. Her heart suddenly felt like lead, and she longed to tell Sherlock that she loved him, just to alleviate some of the weight. "You're so wonderful," was all she managed to whisper before a solitary tear escaped.

Sherlock gently wiped it away with his thumb, before his mouth quirked into a smile. "I generally get called an arsehole, but that makes a nice change."

Rose sniffed, and her face brightened a little. "Not by anyone you're fucking, I hope," she laughed, pressing lightly against Sherlock's chest.

Sherlock emitted a low chuckle, as he lowered himself back to the bed, bringing Rose with him. The rumble from deep within and the predatory glint in his eye made all her doubts disappear behind a sudden onset of passion. Her mouth came down hard on his, and while Sherlock used desperate hands to pull her closer, he felt Rose slip the condom onto him, taking him inside her almost simultaneously with the proficiency that only came with her kind of experience. The meaning behind his thought was swiftly smothered as they fell into a seductive rhythm. The need built up in him, driving everything else from his mind.

Sherlock's body was completely responsive to Rose's as she drove them both harder and faster. When the heat and pressure became too unbearable, he grasped Rose, rolling her off him and tumbling her to the bed. He told himself to slow down, but he was back inside her with one hard thrust. She moved against him ruthlessly, taking what she needed until, helpless to resist, he let himself go.

They fell apart, both sated, and completely exhausted. Rose listened to Sherlock's breathing and resisted the immediate urge to curl up into his chest, all too familiar with his post-coital hypersensitivity.

Once Sherlock had caught his breath, he looked across to Rose and remarked, "Well, that was tedious."

A smile grew on Rose's face at the quip, but it was the wink and the outstretched arm that provided her with a much needed invitation to spend the rest of the night in Sherlock's embrace.

* * *

Further love-making sessions throughout the following week seemed to alternate between an urgent need to alleviate the build-up of tension through a rush of passion, or a slow, sedate, lingering of two lovers content to take the time to taste and explore one another. Sherlock continued to visit Rose each night in Leinster Gardens, except for Sunday night, and the following Saturday night at the end of the week—the two nights Rose worked at the Rendezvous strip club. Rose found it easier to obtain a lift back to Baker Street from Shoreditch, rather than get her friends to take her all the way to Bayswater.

Rose spent long days working at the entertainment store so she'd have more money squirrelled away for the holiday period when she wasn't earning anything, and every other night that she wasn't working as a cloakroom attendant, she spent volunteering at the crisis line call centre. She had felt guilty not taking many shifts at their busiest time of the year—the Christmas period. She was always happy to return home to find her Consulting Detective boyfriend waiting for her in bed, or lying on her sofa yelling at her telly. He always greeted her with kisses so tender they made her toes curl.

Except for Wednesday.

On Wednesday night she didn't see hide nor hair of Sherlock Holmes, until just before she was departing for work on Thursday morning. He stopped by, complaining of needing sleep, or tea—or something that was seven percent stronger than tea—before regaling her with a story about a head on a pike discovered outside a medieval-themed restaurant. Passersby and patrons had all assumed the head to be fake and part of the décor until it began to attract flies.

On Sunday morning Rose and Sherlock lay in her bed, legs and arms entwined, neither one wanting to be the first to move away. Sherlock was flying out to Tibet, via Delhi, at lunchtime, with Rose leaving for Scotland with her parents in the early evening. Silence seemed the best way for them both to convey how each one felt about the next two weeks.

"What time on New Year's Eve will you be home?" Sherlock asked eventually, threading his fingers through Rose's as she shuffled into his chest.

"Just after lunch."

Sherlock was silent for a moment longer, a plan forming in his mind. He had spent the last few days conducting research. It had become quite obvious to him that he knew little about Rose's background, so rather than quiz her about it, he thought he'd do what he did best—research and investigate. He was determined to do something nice for Rose, and something completely different from their usual routine, so getting to know her and her past experiences would go a long way to determining what her preferences would be. In doing so, he had uncovered a very interesting piece of data about his companion.

"Do you have any plans for New Year's Eve?" he asked tentatively, as the whole idea of asking someone on a date was quite unfamiliar to him.

"I'm working."

Not quite the words Sherlock wanted to hear. "At the club?"

"No, at the call centre. I'll already miss helping out during the Christmas period, so I offered to do New Year's."

Rose had spent the last two years working on New Year's Eve at the strip club, which had been hired by a leading men's magazine for their end of year party. The pay was always generous, but this year Rose wanted to work at the crisis centre. She thought her time and skills would be put to better use there.

Sherlock tutted and banded his arms around Rose. "Couldn't you skip it? Say you missed your flight or that you're ill from eating too much Christmas pudding?"

Rose chuckled, before reaching out and caressing Sherlock's cheek. "Tell me what your plans are, and I'll let you know if I want to get out of working that night."

Sherlock frustrated the hell out of Rose by smiling enigmatically. He answered simply, "It's a surprise."


	29. The Seventh Known Bolt Hole

 

Sherlock spent 24 hours sleeping off his jet lag between Rose's sofa and Rose's bed. He had arrived back in London the day before New Year's Eve, hoping to feel half-human again by the time Rose returned from Scotland. He thought he'd be back two days prior, but Inspector Prakesh, his old friend from the Delhi Police, had an intriguing case for him he just couldn't pass up.

His week and a half in Tibet wasn't quite long enough for him to feel completely refreshed and at one with the world, especially after accompanying the Delhi inspector to chase a car full of kidnappers through the Kanjhawala area of outer Delhi. But arriving in Baker Street only set off Mrs Hudson on a post-Christmas frenzy, thinking she had to organise a drinks thing for Sherlock because he had missed out. Sherlock began to wonder what was the point of him escaping to the rooftop of the world in the first place.

He muttered something to his landlady about a case and that he had to "hit the ground running." He sought refuge in Rose's flat and had no intention of returning to Baker Street until New Year's Day, and only then with Rose by his side.

When Rose arrived just after lunch, Sherlock had finally roused himself, still feeling like he'd been run over by a lorry. Of course he knew on which flight Rose was arriving. He'd roughly calculated the time it would take for her to make her way through the terminal, plus he'd estimated the average wait time for a cab at the taxi rank. The travel time from the airport to Bayswater was a bit trickier to calculate, given it was New Year's Eve, but Sherlock was confident he could pinpoint the time of her arrival back in Leinster Gardens within about five minutes. It was unfortunate that the mental exercise, combined with jet lag, had him fall back asleep for another hour.

He'd showered and was in the middle of shaving when he heard the sounds of the front door being unlocked, a suitcase wheeled into the living room and then abruptly discarded. Hasty footsteps told him of her approach. She was both impatient and excited, he deduced, smiling to himself.

Sherlock was standing in the doorway of the bathroom, naked to the waist, save only for his pyjama bottoms, razor still in hand, and a streak of shaving cream covering the last spot he still had to shave, when Rose all but threw herself at him. She clung to his neck as Sherlock wound his arms around her and buried his face in her hair, breathing her in.

Apple, pear, coconut, Rose.

Rose's voice was muffled against Sherlock's neck when she said, "I've missed you."

She lifted her mouth toward him, and Sherlock bent down to lightly brush Rose's lips with his. He only intended to taste her, to be reminded of the texture and flavour of her kiss, but her mouth was warm, hinting at an underlying urgent need. Sherlock fought against his immediate desire, which was to take and plunder. He had an experiment to conduct after all, and he been looking forward to Rose returning to find out how accomplished his technique had become.

"Hang on, Rose," he said after easing out of their kiss. "Let me just finish shaving."

Rose beamed at him, before planting one final soft kiss on his lips. "I'll wait for you in the bedroom," she whispered.

 _Perfect,_  Sherlock thought, as Rose sauntered away. His mind returned to the task at hand, and didn't stray once to what was waiting for him in the bedroom. He hadn't had sex in two weeks, so this would be an interesting challenge.

But once Rose had straddled him, after they had spent a fair few minutes trading saliva, her look of alarm told Sherlock he probably should've warned her about his experiment.

"What's wrong?" she cried in a panic.

Sherlock couldn't help it. He had succeeded. And as his eyes slowly raked over Rose's naked body with her sitting astride him, he couldn't resist a low chuckle.

"What? What is it? What have you done?" Rose looked in horror at Sherlock's obviously uninterested and flaccid penis. "Have you been chemically castrated?" she gasped.

Sherlock's expression was bright with mischief. "Come here, Rose," he beckoned, pulling her down on top of him. He rolled them, pinning Rose underneath him, then pressed himself against her, skimming his mouth along her neck and jawline.

"Everything is working perfectly fine," he said, brushing his lips over her face as she wrapped her body around him. His mouth assaulted hers, provoking Rose to respond in kind, until she could eventually feel his hardness pressed against her.

Sherlock drew back and propped himself up on his elbows, while Rose regarded him with huge eyes, darkened by her own arousal.

"I've merely accomplished a method of meditative concentration, enabling me to detach myself from sexual desire. My ultimate goal is not only to repress arousal, but transcend it. Mind over matter, Rose. A little trick I learnt in the Himalayas."

"What kind of Buddhist crap is this?"

"A skill I may find useful one day," Sherlock proudly proclaimed.

"Not in this bedroom," Rose murmured against his lips, her eyes narrowing, but full of purpose.

* * *

Sherlock woke Rose with light, feathery kisses about her face—the manner that she had taken to waking him on a normal work day.

"Is it time?" she murmured, her eyes still shut.

"It's almost ten. You've got just enough time to shower and eat something before the car arrives."

"Ten? Why so late?" she asked, shuffling out of bed and into the bathroom. She wondered why Sherlock had let her post-coital late afternoon nap continue so far into the evening.

When she emerged fifteen minutes later, she was much more coherent but still in the dark as to where Sherlock was taking her to celebrate New Year's Eve—at least she assumed that was what he was doing.

"Why are we getting a car so late? Wouldn't it be better to walk through the city? We won't get through anywhere."

Rose knew that you couldn't navigate through the city on New Year's Eve by conventional means, with most of the streets around the viewing areas along the Thames closing to traffic in the evening. You either go in early and decide to stay in until the tube re-opened just before midnight, or avoid it like the plague. She tended to favour the latter. But what was Sherlock's preference?

His eyes twinkled as he stated, "We'll get through."

To Rose's absolute bewilderment, the detective was completely right. As the black Jaguar XJ Sentinel was allowed through yet another road barricade, Rose had given up on her yet to be completed statement, which usually commenced with, "I don't think they'll..." with the unfinished part being, "...let us through."

She still didn't get it. They were never stopped; their driver merely slowed down, the road transport police officer would give them a nod, and part the barrier for them.

Rose couldn't believe that Sherlock was taking her to watch the fireworks—the Mayor of London's New Year's Eve Fireworks Display. As spectacular as it was, she was surprised that Sherlock Holmes, of all people, would choose to do something so... commonplace. She thought perhaps they would go to the restaurant atop The Shard, with dinner tickets being just under £400, or the restaurant on the 40th floor of the Heron tower, with dinner a little cheaper at £125. But no. They were right in the heart of Westminster, with the police manning the barricades, letting them through as if they were—

"Sherlock, whose car is this?"

Sherlock chuckled again, much to Rose's annoyance. He'd been doing that a lot this evening. "Let's just say my brother organised it."

Sherlock was bristling with anticipation himself. Not due to anxiety about whether he could gain access or not. He'd been here so many times before, and without Mycroft's assistance. The fact that it was the busiest time of the year was no hindrance either. He hoped that he had read Rose correctly—that the little snippet of information he'd uncovered about her would result in her being happy about his surprise, and not annoyed by it.

As their car was allowed through an archway into the Palace of Westminster, Rose's heart rate accelerated, and her skin prickled with goosebumps.  _How did he organise this?_

"Okay, where are we going?"

"Isn't it obvious?"

As they drove through a tiny courtyard-sized carpark at a snail's pace, with only a handful of stationary cars scattered about, Rose responded, "No, it's not obvious to me. Are we going to a beheading? Perhaps mine?"

"Why would you be beheaded?" Sherlock asked, his eyes glistening with mischief.

"I don't know. You said your brother organised it. What are we doing here?"

Sherlock smiled broadly, and clasped Rose's hand as their vehicle travelled through yet another archway. Rose noted the sign that read "Dead Slow,"—a guideline their driver appeared to be adhering to, which seemed odd at this hour and with no one about. That is, until they turned on a dime, passing within a hair's breath of the walls of another archway—the building and courtyards clearly designed for the horse-drawn carriages of yesteryear.

They pulled up alongside the building where an attendant stood waiting to open the door for them.

"How about some champagne?" Sherlock asked, avoiding Rose's question. He still wanted to maintain an element of surprise since the location of their "date" wasn't obvious to her. "There's a Laurent-Perrier upstairs. I don't drink it, but that's what people like to do on New Year's Eve don't they?"

"Upstairs, where?" Rose peered out at the gothic-style building that loomed in front of them as the car door was opened for her. She knew exactly where they were. But why here? Before she left the car, she turned to the detective and said quietly, "Sherlock, are we going to be around dignitaries and posh people? Because I'm not really dressed for them."

Sherlock noted Rose's look of concern and quipped, "The only posh person you're going to be around is me. And I'm not really posh, I'm just... well-dressed."

The comment didn't elicit the reaction he expected from Rose. She continued to look ill-at-ease.

"No MPs?" she said in a low voice, the stress on her face appearing too readily.

Sherlock's stomach dropped several inches.  _You idiot,_  he thought, chastising himself.  _The Houses of Parliament. Members of Parliament, or the member for Rockwell South, specifically._ The one man in the entire universe that Rose wanted nothing to do with and  _Sherlock the Idiot_  had brought her to the pervert's 'work place'.

"We're not here to see anyone," he swiftly replied, giving Rose a reassuring smile before she exited the car first.

A well-spoken attendant greeted them (Rose was far too nervous to remember her name) and escorted them inside the building. There they briskly strode along a freezing cold, narrow corridor until they exited onto the other side of the building. Rose could hear the swell of the excited crowd through the fencing and the repetitive thump of the amplified music played by a DJ, which seemed to keep in time with her heart beat. She shivered in the crisp night air, thankful that this New Year's Eve was dry and relatively balmy.

She braved a glance skyward.  _Good God_ , she thought,  _so we_ are _going up there_.

"I shall leave you here, Mr Holmes," their escort said, nodding to Sherlock. "Enjoy the fireworks, and have a happy new year."

Sherlock thanked the woman and fished a set of keys from his pocket. Rose stared, wide-eyed as Sherlock unlocked a rather ordinary door at the base of the stairwell that bore the simple label  _Elizabeth Tower_.

Rose couldn't hide her astonishment any longer. "Why the fuck do you have a set of keys to Big Ben?"

Sherlock furrowed his brow at Rose, although she could detect a hint of mirth behind his expression. "Well how are we supposed to get in? They do keep the door locked." Sherlock held the door open for Rose, raising his eyebrows as if it were an ordinary night, and this was her own front door. "And it's not called Big Ben. Big Ben is the name—"

"—of the bell, I know," Rose said immediately. "Everyone knows that, but we all call the tower Big Ben anyway."

"Yes, you do, don't you?" Sherlock replied, letting the door click shut behind them as he stepped inside the stairwell. "Are you feeling fit?"

Rose put one foot on the first stone step and gazed up at the Victorian-era spiral staircase as it wound its way to a dizzying height above them. She drew in a deep breath and asked, "How many?"

"Three hundred and thirty-four. Or three hundred and ninety-nine to the very top. But we can stop at one hundred and something, for a breather, and a sip of champagne if you like. Come on."

Sherlock hastened past Rose, who reluctantly began her ascent behind him. She wondered if she'd be able to keep up with the brisk pace he'd set.

"Will there be anyone else here?" she asked quietly, fully conscious of her voice echoing upwards.

"Just Robbo and Westie, and maybe Westie's daughter if he was feeling brave enough to smuggle her up here."

"You... know them?"

Sherlock just glanced back and flashed Rose one of his sly smiles.

"This is one of my bolt holes," he informed her. "I have them all around the city. I told you that." Sherlock then preceded to describe the workings of the clock, the mechanism room they would come to after they had some champagne in the prison room, the old pennies they used to speed up or slow down the swing of the pendulum, and the time Westie almost fell from a ladder while changing a lightbulb.

Rose couldn't believe Sherlock was still capable of talking when she herself was almost out of breath.

"Oh, I didn't get you to sign a disclaimer before you climbed," Sherlock said, as they took a welcome break in the exhibition room that bore the label  _Prison room_. "There isn't any record of you being here, so you won't be able to sue anyone if you trip, plus consuming alcohol on the premises is—"

There was a hush of fabric behind them, and as Rose turned to the stairwell door in response, a gruff man's voice finished, "—a hangable offense. Good evening Mr Holmes." The gentleman glanced at Rose and winked at her. "Don't let him spin you tales of murderers and kidnappers. He's all talk this one."

"Could never get a word in edge-wise when you're about, Mr Robeson. May I introduce my friend, Rose."

The man called Robbo grinned affably while he shook Rose's hand. He tapped a finger to his nose and quipped, "I didn't see no one." He then gestured toward the stairwell. "I'd better get up and ring the speaking clock before the next quarter hour. Don't forget them ear plugs." He pointed to a box on the floor, underneath a display table. "See you up there."

After Robbo had left, Sherlock took Rose's empty champers glass from her, asking if she'd like a refill. Rose declined, but was grateful that both the bubbly and Mr Robeson's friendly greeting had calmed her nerves.

"Does he really synchronise Big Ben by ringing the speaking clock?"

"Three times per week," Sherlock replied. "They're feeling a bit under pressure tonight though, requiring the fireworks at the London Eye to be perfectly synchronised to burst in between each strike of the bell. The eyes and ears of the world will be upon us, Rose. A quarter of a million along the Thames, and 14 million people watching us on BBC One, and that's just the UK."

"Us?"

Sherlock beamed and grasped Rose's hand. "Of course," he said, stooping to grab a couple of packets of the visitor ear plugs, and leading Rose back into the stairwell. Gazing upwards, he remarked, "Where do you think we'll be when the clock strikes midnight?"

Rose's heart swelled at the thought, and when Sherlock turned back to her, she stepped forward, winding her arms around his neck. She hugged him tightly and whispered, "This is all amazing. Thank you."

When she pulled back, Sherlock ducked his head, kissing Rose lightly on the lips. He said, in a low voice, "That's the last time I kiss you this year."

The Consulting Detective grabbed her hand once more and they preceded up the next lot of stairs until they reached the mechanism room. Rose stood in awe of the complex machinery that drove the clock tower's timing and striking mechanisms. She felt as if she needed to hold her breath to hear the quiet and steady ticking every second.  _Precisely_  every second. It was, after all, a clock. Or more specifically,  _the_ clock.

"You're a liar, and a thief!" roared a voice, as a rather menacing figure strode into the room. "Where's my shoes, ya bastard!"

Sherlock had turned to face the intruder, as Rose's mouth ran dry at the confrontation. But the detective strode forward, meeting the man halfway across the tiny room where they both embraced, the larger man chuckling.

"McCann," Sherlock said, as they separated. "Haven't they retired you yet?"

"Can't find anyone to train up. I'll be here til the day I die. Thought you'd be a good candidate. Would've been a great cover for you, while you were pretending to be dead."

"Yes, I must apologise for my absence during the winding back of the clocks. I was unfortunately detained abroad. Had I returned to London one week earlier—

"Back _and_ forward," said another man, casually entering the room through a doorway on the opposite side. "You missed four marathon shifts, Mr Holmes."

Sherlock greeted him like a long lost friend also, and introduced Rose to both McCann and the newcomer, Mr Westaway, or Westie for short.

"I had to wind your brother's clock back meself," Westie said. "Made it five minutes slow, just like you always did."

The men all shared a laugh before a whirl and a clunk of the machinery startled just Rose, it seemed. Robbo checked a device he held in his hand. "Perfect timin'," he remarked, and there was a collective sigh of relief from the engineers as the quarter bells commenced ringing  _The Westminster Chimes_ above them, signalling a quarter to midnight.

Mr Westaway gave Rose a brief tour along the narrow passageways around the tower's four clock faces, and suggested she also come back during the day so she could walk the length of each side without worrying about casting a shadow when the eyes of the world were on the clock, and she could also peer out through one of the glass panels that swung open between the numbers five and six, and take in the sights of the city that way. The engineer also regaled Rose with a story about the time that Sherlock had donned the gear of an industrial window cleaner, and abseiled down the north-side clock face and helped the other three cleaners wash the glass panels.

"There's a picture on the internet," he whispered conspiratorially. "Sherlock Holmes is the second one on the right. Look it up. The year 2010 it was. The faces are only cleaned every four years. His lordship went mental when he found out."

"His lordship?" Rose asked dubiously.

Westie gave her a mischievous grin. "Mycroft Holmes. That's just what we call him. He don't have no peerage, just acts like it. Complete opposite to his younger brother."

 _Tell me about it,_  Rose thought to herself.

"They're just lightbulbs," Rose remarked to Sherlock as they ascended the stairs once more on their way to the belfry.

"What did you think there'd be?"

"I don't know. Some LCD panels or something. I'm actually surprised it's all still mechanical in this day and age. I thought something as significant as this would be driven by a computer."

Sherlock chuckled and replied, "Just wait til you see Big Ben. It actually _is_ an enormous bell."

As they climbed the stairs, Rose asked Sherlock about the significance of McCann's shoes, and why Sherlock had taken possession of them. She was surprised to learn that in the days after the Consulting Detective had leapt from the roof of St Bart's hospital, and before he visited her in Leinster Gardens, he'd stayed one night on the streets (where his own shoes got nicked) and couple of nights in the tower. His horologist friends were only too willing to help the detective, having known him for years, with McCann highly entertained by the fact that Sherlock needed to borrow his shoes. For several years, Sherlock had assisted the team with their clock winding in March and October—all two thousand of the Parliamentary Estate's clocks, which included his brother's in a little known back room, the man having offices all throughout the British Government—in exchange for the Keepers of the Great Clock turning a blind eye whenever the detective required the use of his number seven bolt hole.

There was more to assisting with the clock winding other than ensuring that the peers and members of Parliament had accurate time keepers. Sherlock had access to their offices after hours for a 48-hour period twice a year. Such a privilege had proven useful for more than one case over the years.

In the belfry, in front of the Great Bell itself, Rose snapped a photo of Sophie Westaway, Westie's daughter, with her fiance. In return, Sophie took a photo of Rose and a slightly underwhelmed Sherlock using Rose's phone.

"We should get going," Sherlock instructed Rose, as the latter stood with Sophie admiring photos on Sophie's phone of the newly engaged couple as they had posed in front of various other sites around the city. The couple were only in London for the week.

"Oh, are you going to watch the fireworks from the Ayrton Light?" Sophie asked enthusiastically, pointing upwards.

"Yes," Sherlock replied pleasantly. "It should be easier to see the sky when we're standing above the belfry lights. Are you not joining us?"

"No, we want to stand in the belfry in front of Big Ben when it tolls, with the quarter bells above us."

Sherlock nodded amiably, and Rose called out, "See you later," as they ascended one final set of iron stairs set in a tight spiral to the top of the tower where the lantern was housed. It was colder and windier at the top, and Rose drew her coat tightly around her.

Sophie called out from below, "Don't forget—at twenty three seconds the quarter bells will ring. At least I hope so."

Sherlock and Rose walked around to the north side of the tower, facing the London Eye across the Thames, just in time to see the countdown timer projected onto the Shell Centre commence from 59 seconds. The noise from the crowd below swelled and roared like the ocean. The accompanying music had been simplified to a rhythmic beat in time with the seconds counting down behind the London Eye.

Rose almost felt ill with anticipation, as if the pressure of the bells tolling at the right moment rested squarely on her shoulders. Now that she had met the men responsible, and was standing above the Great Bell itself, she couldn't help but feel the stress of the situation.

Sherlock stood just behind her, and held out a hand, upon which rested a pair of ear plugs. Rose dutifully inserted them into her ears, and shivered as the countdown timer read 31 seconds. Sherlock slid his arms around her, providing her with warmth and comfort, and Rose relaxed into him, just a little. She knew she wasn't breathing when the timer reached 24.

As the first peals of  _The Westminster Chimes_  rang out, and the barely audible sound of Sophie Westaway squealing in delight below reached them, Rose gasped in relief. Sherlock chuckled in her ear, before pressing his lips to her cheek. Rose was sure that he felt relieved as well. They were his friends after all.

The quarter bells finished their last obligatory peal with precisely ten seconds to go. And as the crowd below took over the countdown, Rose squeezed Sherlock's arms, which were still embracing her. She breathed in and shut her eyes, listening to the masses, the anticipation building up inside her again. At the three second mark, Sherlock's arms tensed around her, and Rose opened her eyes as the timer read one second.

The air was still as if everyone had held their collective breath for a split second, and then the hammer struck Big Ben precisely when the countdown hit zero.

Rose's eyes watered and the entire floor shook as the tower around them appeared to vibrate as well. She could feel that first toll through her bones, and she began laughing at the unexpected shock that the first strike gave her.

Fireworks burst around the London Eye and the crowd went wild. Big Ben continued to toll with a perfect synchronisation of fireworks in between, never drowning out the 155 year old New Year's herald. Rose stood mesmerised at the spectacle in the sky before her, with the bell tolls resonating all around and through her. When the Great Bell had tolled six times, Rose turned around in Sherlock's arms and hugged him tight. She wasn't interested in the fireworks display right now. The emotion of the night had finally overwhelmed her.

Sherlock had brought her to a place that held a special meaning for him, despite it being New Year's Eve and located at an entire nation's icon. At the same time, he knew it would be a magnificent treat for her. He wanted to make her happy, after a month wrought with emotion. For all of that, Rose had well and truly given her heart to him. She clung to him, burying her head in his neck, not able to speak and unwilling to let him go.

Big Ben finally struck for the twelfth and final time, and the sky exploded with light and sound as fireworks crackled above the Thames, a Catherine wheel emanating initially from centre of the London Eye itself. The tower was still humming with the Great Bell's last toll, and Sherlock reached up to gently ease Rose's arms from around him.

"Have a look, Rose," he said, encouraging her to turn around again.

They stood together, with Sherlock holding Rose against his side, and watched London's world class event, bringing in the New Year quite literally with a bang. Sherlock left off watching the sky, his attention instead drawn to Rose. A tiny smile ghosted her lips, and her eyes were bright with an innocent kind of awe.

Sherlock's heart was full, and knew he had done the right thing in bringing Rose here. Now to let her know his ulterior motive, other than to celebrate New Year's, and hope she wouldn't resent him for it. Sherlock had concluded that Rose had probably spent the better part of her life in disappointment about this fact, and he wished to change that just for a night.

Rose caught Sherlock watching her and her smile widened. Turning to him, she said, "Happy New Year, Sherlock."

She gazed up at him, waiting for the man she loved to either return the sentiment, or grace her with the traditional New Year's kiss. He did neither.

Sherlock's face softened, his eyes warm with affection, as he brought his hands up to cradle Rose's face. He skimmed his thumb across her cheek, and drew a breath in to steady himself.

"Happy birthday, Rose."

.


	30. I'm Faking Opinions and It's Exhausting

Every surface of Rose's body tingled with delight as Sherlock curled his around hers, kissing her softly about her neck and shoulders.

"Happy birthday," his voice rumbled again.

"You've said that about a hundred times already," Rose laughed. She turned her head, so Sherlock could press one of his tantalising kisses to her lips.

"Just making sure you got the message," he replied, before sighing and resting his head back onto the pillow.

His arms remained firmly around Rose as she shuffled backwards into him, wanting to feel warmed by his entire body. This was the longest post-coital cuddle she had ever shared with Sherlock while they were awake.

"I haven't had my birthday all to myself in over ten years," she murmured. "My friends used to wish me a happy birthday as an afterthought, well after midnight, when they were already tanked. Really took the shine off my special day. And on New Year's Day itself, they were too tired or hung-over to want to come out to dinner with me."

"So where shall I take you today?" Sherlock asked. "I have a few more bolt holes around the city. When was the last time you were in Kew Gardens? Or there's the leaning tomb in Hampstead Cemetery."

Sherlock loosened his hold on Rose when he felt her turning around to face him. She chuckled lightly in response to his suggestions.

"Thank you, Sherlock," she said, reaching up to cup his cheek. "It's been wonderful. You don't have to do anything else for me. Besides, I actually have a lot on today."

Sherlock frowned in mock disappointment. He actually had a few things he was itching to start himself.

"Why, what are you up to?" he asked.

"I usually help Billy serve up breakfast to whoever is in his house on New Year's Day, then Mum's taking me out for a birthday afternoon tea."

"Billy?" Sherlock asked, wondering where he'd heard the name before.

"My friend, Billy. You remember... the guy who supplies me with my weed?"

"Oh," Sherlock remarked, stealing an eyeroll when Rose looked away. " _That_ Billy."

"So I have to shop for breakfast supplies, then take them over there. Billy sort of looks after people who..." Rose paused for a moment, trying to find appropriate words for the service Billy actually provided. "...need a place to stay for a night or two. We fry up bacon and eggs and sausages. Maybe hash browns and baked beans, too." Rose smiled and couldn't resist kissing Sherlock's downturned mouth. "You can come too if you like?"

"Nope," Sherlock replied, rolling away from Rose and sitting up.

Sherlock's sudden burst of energy came as no surprise to Rose, and she rarely took offense these days when his attention was directed away from her.

"What will you be doing?" she asked, pulling over the pillow Sherlock had abandoned, and hugging it to her.

Sherlock grabbed at his boxers and drew them on before standing up. He turned to Rose and said, with a twinkle in his eye, "I've got a wedding to plan!"

* * *

Rose was standing by Sherlock's living room window, looking out onto the street when Sherlock returned from his shower.

"What are you looking at?" he asked as he grabbed the kettle to fill with water. He realised it had just boiled, so he placed it back down onto its holder.

"I'm looking for photographers—paparazzi," she replied.

"Where?" Sherlock asked, striding across the room to join her.

"I don't think there are any now, but Mrs Hudson mentioned the other day that sometimes there are one or two out there. You're some kind of celebrity you know." Rose turned away from the window as Sherlock scowled at the street below. "I don't want to be photographed leaving here," she continued. "Imagine what nosy reporters would find out about me if they had a mind to. There's no one out there now, so I should go while it's early."

Sherlock left the window to give Rose her goodbye hug. She embraced him tightly, whispering, "Thank you for giving me the best New Year's Eve and birthday present ever."

Rose eased back from her hug, allowing Sherlock to capture her mouth in his. He had made her very happy, he could see that, and he hadn't anticipated how warming he would find such a seemingly selfless act.

* * *

"You're back!"

"Ah, John, good," Sherlock responded, looking up from his laptop. "Just the man I wanted to see. I've made a list of twenty-one suitable venues, and am just about to conduct a background check into half a dozen photographers. I know a quaint rabbi who also doubles as a fire-eater, so that's the ceremony and entertainment taken care of. Now I need a list of—"

"Sherlock, wait! Slow down!" John called out in a panic. "We just came 'round to visit Mrs Hudson and wish her a Happy New Year. Mary and I didn't even know you were back. As some of us are slightly more hung-over than others, can we hold off on the wedding planning for a while?"

"What? But I've already made progress."

John sighed deeply, then cleared his throat. "Firstly, Mary and I aren't Jewish, so I don't think a rabbi will be appropriate."

Sherlock looked momentarily wounded. "I thought you wanted a church wedding. Church, synagogue... they all have... steeples."

John sank into his chair and drummed his fingers impatiently on the arm. He drew in a deep breath in order to calm himself, then he leant forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

"Look, Sherlock... ah, mate," he said eventually. "Mary and I will make a list of things that we need organised, and will let you know which of those you can do for us."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, regarding his friend with suspicion. "That's what you said before Christmas. It's now New Year's Day. Several weeks have gone by and nothing's been done. I've been in Tibet, so I have the perfect excuse. What have _you_ been doing all this time, Doctor Watson?"

"Did you go to the tailor to get measured for your suit?"

"I emailed them before I left."

John frowned. Of course Sherlock would do everything his way. "You took your measurements yourself?"

"I _know_ my measurements. I only have to glance in the mirror—"

The sound of light footsteps hastening upstairs caught both men's attention, and it was a welcome relief to John when his fiancée entered the room.

"Happy New Year, Sherlock," Mary said affectionately, walking over and gracing the detective with a kiss on the forehead. "Mrs Hudson said you were back from Tibet, but she thought you'd gone away again for a few days on a case."

"I... snuck back in during the early hours of this morning," Sherlock hastily replied.

"Ah, Sherlock was just asking about the..." John paused to clear his throat as Mary perched herself on the arm of her fiancé's chair. "… ah wedding plans. You know—churches and stuff?" He looked up at Mary, hoping his expression would signal panic stations.

But Mary raised her eyebrows, feigning excitement. "Oh! Wonderful. Okay, well, Sherlock. You like lists and things. Why don't you make a list of everything that needs to be done and run it by us."

"What?" John exclaimed, looking up at Mary in surprise.

Sherlock reached down by his side to a folder that was leaning against his chair, pulled out a sheaf of paper, and handed it to Mary.

"Oh," she remarked, running her eyes down quite a comprehensive list, before turning the sheet over to discover that it too, was full. "Okay," she murmured as she rose from her perch, still studying the list. "So you've grouped it according to timings... I like it. Hmm, twelve months before, we should've done..."

Sherlock looked at John and raised his eyebrows. John scowled.

"We've only just got engaged," John commented.

"Yes," Sherlock agreed, "and you only allowed six months to organise everything. As it's now January, you have just under five months, if you still want your spring wedding. All you've managed to choose so far is the best man."

"And I'm having second thoughts about that decision already," John muttered.

"Okay, great," Mary said, turning around and handing the page back to Sherlock, having ignored their exchange. "I'm happy for you to make a start on that."

"What!" exclaimed an exasperated John.

"Oh, John," said Mary, softly. "Here, you can make a start too. Let's see... You can organise..." Mary looked over Sherlock's shoulder as both she and the detective carefully scrutinised the list.

They both said, simultaneously to John, "The photographer."

* * *

"Happy birthday, Rosie," Billy said, beaming, as he reached down to relieve Rose of the grocery bags. "Come in. I've made you summin'."

Rose followed Billy into the rundown building that once served as a college in Canning Town's outskirts. Rose wasn't sure if Billy actually owned the severely decayed building, or if he and his transient friends were just squatters. She had never bothered to find out, despite Billy having lived there, in East London, for years now.

At the very back of the college, on the ground floor, was a massive kitchen that Billy said must have been for catering students. One of his friends had managed to salvage a stove top that they hooked up to gas bottles acquired from around Newham. Rose felt it was best not to ask too many questions about the origins of some of the new additions that appeared now and then in the house.

For her birthday present, Billy presented Rose with a small wooden pipe that he had learnt how to carve from a guy who ran an online weed paraphernalia shop.

"Now y'don' have ta worry 'bout rollin' so much," Billy told her in all earnestness.

Rose hugged Billy tightly, and thanked him for such a thoughtful present. They then set about cooking up their breakfast bonanza, probably their biggest yet. Billy said he had nine "friends" who had stayed the night, with three of them having stayed the entire week since Christmas.

"'ere's our first customer now," Billy joked, waving a spatula toward the door as Rose was opening a packet of paper plates.

"Hi," she said, smiling amiably to the young man who had entered the kitchen. "I'm Rose."

The newcomer shook Rose's proferred hand, but seemed to have a bit of trouble deciding what to say in response.

"What's your name?" Rose prompted him.

"Ah, Isaac, miss."

"Nice to meet you, Isaac. Take a seat. Can I get you some eggs?"

* * *

Sherlock was frantically pacing about Rose's living room, muttering to himself, while she was folding her washing on the dining table.

"No, there's only one thing for it—the venue will have to come first. Everything else hinges on that."

"What's that?" Rose asked, noticing Sherlock's furrowed brow and manic disposition.

"The venue," he repeated, stopping in front of her. "The cake, the flowers, and the wedding invitations all have to somehow match the bridesmaids' outfits, and I can't let them choose the colour of the fabric until Mary and John settle on a venue."

Rose smiled to herself over Sherlock's seemingly self-appointed role as overseer of all decisions wedding related.

"I'll have to narrow it down," he muttered to himself again.

Rose went back to her folding, which she found quite difficult as Sherlock had remained near her and had shut his eyes while he gestured widely with his hands as if he were swatting away annoying insects, all the while murmuring, "Unsuitable, unsuitable, out of budget, too small, too... old..."

"Ow, Sherlock!" Rose exclaimed after she was smacked in the side of the head by Sherlock's last dismissive gesture. "Go away!"

"This is important, Rose!" he responded irritably, walking over to an armchair and sinking into it. He held his head in his hands, rattled off a couple more venue names before suddenly standing and exclaiming, "Sutton Mallet! It's perfect!"

Rose sighed in relief, but her moment of serenity was short-lived when Sherlock strode by and said, "Come on, Rose!"

"What?"

Sherlock disappeared into her bedroom, rifled around a bit, then emerged holding a pair of jeans, an undershirt, a pair of knickers and one of Rose's bras. He scrutinised the pile of tops Rose had neatly folded on the table, then discarded the top two before thrusting the third and the rest of the clothes he held into Rose's chest.

"Here. Get dressed, and hurry up."

"What?"

"We've got to go!" he said forcefully, grabbing his great coat from the back of an armchair, and drawing it around himself.

When Rose remained where she was standing, holding an armful of clothing and wearing a puzzled expression, Sherlock descended on her. He spun her around and almost shoved her in the direction of the bathroom.

"We need to catch the train. You said you wanted to help me. As it's an hour out of London, we have to be there and back before your shift tonight."

"That's... thoughtful of you to consider my needs," Rose murmured.

She was about to disappear into the bathroom before Sherlock grabbed her arm and pulled her back.

"Wait!" He bent over Rose and inhaled deeply.

"Sherlock," Rose began, feeling slightly disconcerted.

"No. You smell fine. You don't need a shower," he said, pulling Rose toward her bedroom.

"What? Yes, I do. Anyway, why do you need me for this? You should be going with John and Mary."

Sherlock grabbed the pile of clothes from Rose and dumped them onto her bed. He then tugged at her dressing gown sash while saying, "I need to confirm it in my own mind before I present them with my decision. There's no point giving them a number of options to choose from, because John will act like he's drowning. I've already wasted a couple of weeks doing that." Sherlock went to open Rose's dressing gown but she batted his hand away. Sherlock stepped back from Rose, allowing her to disrobe. "I need you because you're a... woman," he continued, gesturing at Rose, who now stood naked before him.

"You're very, very observant," Rose joked. "But now you're sounding sexist."

"I'm not being sexist," Sherlock said, picking up Rose's bra and approaching her, holding out the article in front of him. Rose snatched it from him. "I momentarily forgot what I was talking about when confronted with your ... body. That's never happened before. Look, Rose. I just need a second opinion, however inferior."

Rose tutted and shot him a look. Sherlock remained oblivious as he handed Rose her knickers.

"I can get dressed myself," she hissed.

"Barely," Sherlock muttered as he exited the room. "Hurry up!" he called back.

Five minutes later, Rose found herself hastening half a step behind Sherlock as he strode along Craven Hill.

"The tube is back this way," Rose called out breathlessly behind him.

"Newbury is west out of London. We have to get to Paddington not Bayswater."

Rose decided there was no point in telling Sherlock right now that she was reluctant to be seen with him. She could barely keep up him, and when they boarded the train, the carriage was mostly full, so they sat apart for a good half hour anyway. When the carriage began to clear a little, Sherlock changed seats.

"St Mary's Church," he began, showing Rose his phone screen. "And there's a nice little B&B nearby that boasts a function room, just out of Newbury, in a village called Sutton Mallet. They do catering, too. And well within John and Mary's budget."

"They gave you a budget to stick to?"

Sherlock's mouth teased into a smile. "I may have looked at both their bank balances."

* * *

Rose thought they'd never reach their destination, but a quick ten minute trip by coach out of Newbury saw them in a small laneway in front of the Bed & Breakfast Sherlock had shown her on his phone. Sherlock seemed to know where he was going, and Rose was just about to query that fact when he remarked, "Just how it looks on Google Street view."

He lead them around the building and confidently strode up to the door and tried the lock.

"Um, Sherlock, this isn't reception," Rose said, gesturing to another entranceway behind her.

"I know. This is the function room. Just taking a look before I bother anybody."

"But..." Rose protested feebly as the door, obviously not locked, swung inwards when Sherlock pushed on it.

The room was dusty and disused, but had a warm glow about it. The walls were painted a sunny yellow adorned with green vines winding their way upwards toward the tall ceiling.

"Oh," Rose gasped in awe. "Do you think it's still used as a function room?"

"It's unused during winter," Sherlock informed her, striding in. "They can't keep it adequately heated, but it's available again in spring."

Sherlock looked about with a critical eye, while Rose walked over to one set of french doors. She wiped aside some of the thick dust on the glass, and peered out into the formal winter garden.

"Kitchen's through there," Sherlock added, as if he were the tour guide. "It's everyday use is for the staff and guests, but it becomes a fully operational professional kitchen when they cater for functions in here."

"How do you know all this?" Rose asked, turning from the doors.

Sherlock held up his phone and waved it at her. "Research, Rose. What did you think I was doing for the entire one hour train journey here?"

 _Ignoring me_ , Rose thought.

Rose kept out of Sherlock's way as he snapped photos of the room from several different angles.

"Now," Sherlock continued, looking the full length of the room. He held out his arms, pointing to the far end. "Bridal table there, with the gift table against the wall." He looked on either side of him, narrowing his eyes in thought, before he strode the length of the room once more and peered underneath a drop cloth at the furniture that was stored there. "Round tables," he murmured to himself. "So, six, seven, or eight of those, possibly seating eight to ten guests. Depends on John and Mary and the list of guests they're currently arguing over." He spun about, then slowly strolled to the middle of the room, his fingertips steepled to his lips, deep in thought. He about-turned and paused as Rose made her way toward him.

"Come here a minute," he said softly, holding out his hand to Rose.

"What for?" she asked tentatively.

He continued holding out his hand, until Rose took it, then Sherlock hooked his other arm gently behind her back. That could only mean one thing.

Sherlock eyed his companion with suspicion. "Do you know how to waltz?"

Rose grinned guiltily. "Er... no."

Sherlock tutted. "Well that's obvious," he commented, readjusting Rose's hand positions, and putting a gap between them. "Firstly, it's not sex. I shouldn't be feeling your breasts pressed up against me."

Rose laughed lightly. "Why do you want to dance with me right now?"

"Road testing. Are you ready? Just follow me."

"But, Sherlock, I―"

Sherlock took a step forward, and so did Rose, causing her to almost knee him in the groin.

"Christ, Rose! What are you doing?"

"You said to follow you!"

"I'm not a mirror! I guide you. If I move forward, you take a step backward. It's not rocket science."

Rose laughed in frustration. Sherlock scowled in frustration.

"If you're not going to take it seriously..." he began, but he was immediately distracted by the sound of footsteps approaching from along the corridor. "Time for negotiations," he remarked, dropping his arms from around Rose and making his way to the exit. He shot back, "One hour per day, every day, for the next four months―dance lessons with me. You definitely need them."

"Why do I have to dance with you anyway," Rose murmured.

Sherlock paused mid-stride. Turning to Rose he said matter-of-factly, "Because you're my plus one."

* * *

Sherlock was distracted with his phone once more, but Rose spent the train journey home with an uncomfortable churning in her gut.

She didn't want to go to the wedding. The possibility of being a guest had never even crossed her mind. Sherlock had been almost obsessively researching and planning for the wedding for the two weeks since New Year's Day, and Rose had found it all mildly amusing. Not once did she even have a yearning to attend. This was possibly up there with the worse things that could happen to her this year—attend John Watson's wedding as Sherlock's date, with John knowing that she was once a prostitute who had been hired by Sherlock. Perhaps John would still think she was a paid sex worker and was even on the clock when Sherlock decided to bring her to his best friend's wedding.

And then there was the drunken sex she'd almost had with the groom.

She didn't know how to broach the subject with Sherlock. After he'd mentioned the idea to her, he was then busy liaising with the Functions Manager at the Sutton Mallet B&B. Sherlock was almost buzzing with excitement when they left the village. He immediately began texting both John and Mary, sending them the photos he took and a list of costs associated with hiring the venue, the catering, and a special discount for guests choosing to stay overnight.

"Everything else can be organised now," he said to Rose on the train. "Look, this will be the colour of the bridesmaids' dresses." Sherlock had changed the settings on his phone so that the colours were inverted. The yellow walls of the function room were now a light purple in his photos.

"This shade of lilac," he announced proudly. "In direct contrast to the reception room décor. The bridesmaids' dress colour will pop!"

"Oh," Rose commented, disinterestedly. "That's clever."

Rose listened while Sherlock spoke alternately to John then to Mary. _Poor John_ , she thought. It was obvious that the doctor had handed the phone to his fiancée when Sherlock was clearly frustrated that the couple hadn't finalised the guest list.

"Mary, I need that list," Sherlock said vehemently. "Don't forget that some person unknown to us kidnapped your fiancé and stashed him in a log pile. Someone clearly wants him dead. You need me to veto the guest list. I have to do background checks on everyone associated with the wedding, and that will take time. John can't invite Great Aunt Marjorie if she turns out to be an axe-wielding maniac."

Sherlock ended the call with a satisfied grin on his face. Rose concluded that Mary had acquiesced.

 _The man gets his own way with everyone_ , Rose thought, reflecting on the fake charming persona he had assumed when talking to the Sutton Mallet Functions Manager. _He can't get his own way with me coming to the wedding. I just can't go._

* * *

Sherlock was miffed that Rose was reluctant to visit him in Baker Street these days. He knew her hesitance to be connected to the famous Sherlock Holmes was based on a valid fear—that some semi-competent journalist would seek out her past and therefore uncover her previous occupation. Still, the knowledge did little to quell his feelings of rejection.

Rose had insisted that Sherlock was still welcome to come to her flat, at anytime, day or night, as long as he was careful that he wasn't followed.

"Why can't _you_ be careful that _you're_ not being followed?" he'd asked Rose, not understanding that not everyone possessed his skills in stealthily navigating the city streets.

He could detect an underlying sadness within her, that had grown since mid-January. He thought he'd made her happy with her birthday surprise, but he concluded that he couldn't ride on that wave forever.

It was toward the end of January, when Sherlock had had enough of John and Mary's guest list arguments. It was finally agreed upon that partners were invited only if they were clearly stated on the invitation. No invitations would be sent with a guest's name plus the vague wording, "and guest." This meant the Mrs Hudson's invitation, for example, would explicitly state, "Ms Martha Hudson and Mr Champak Chatterjee," with the landlady's approval of course. But John's cousin, whose husband was unknown to the doctor, would receive an invitation with her name on it only. John and Mary figured that if it was a good enough directive for the royal family, then it was good enough for them.

Rose had used this decision as an opportunity to bring up her casual invitation to the wedding, telling Sherlock that he himself wouldn't receive an invitation anyway, since he was part of the bridal party, and therefore she couldn't be his plus one. Sherlock informed Rose that he was adding her name to the guest list, and that she would receive her own invitation. After all, he was in charge of getting the damn things printed. Everybody else close to John and Mary would be bringing a partner, so why couldn't he, Sherlock had reasoned.

Again, Rose had to think of another way to tell Sherlock she would not attend the wedding.

Rose was due to work a later shift at the strip club on Friday night, because her counterpart was away holidaying in Spain, so Rose let Sherlock know that she would get a lift back to Baker Street. She also had an early shift at the entertainment store the next morning, so she was in for a very short night there.

When she arrived just before 2am, she found Sherlock still awake and constructing something in his living room.

"A scale model of the reception venue," he told Rose, after she had greeted him and stood puzzling over his cardboard project. "We're having trouble working out where the dance floor can go with so many tables crowding the floor. I'm thinking while everyone is standing around at the bridal party end watching John and Mary cut the cake, the catering staff can clear away the tables and store them on the far side, giving us a dance floor." Sherlock tutted, then murmured, "But we still need a spot for the DJ."

"Well, I'm far too tired for such decision making," Rose said, almost yawning as if to add further proof to her statement. "I'll be off to bed."

Rose put her arm around Sherlock's shoulders while he remained seated at his living room table. He looked up at her expectantly, and placed his arm around her waist.

"I won't be far behind," he replied, pleasantly.

Rose bent down, pressing a long, soft kiss to Sherlock's lips. He would've liked to have kept her there, the arousal caused by her warm mouth drizzling slowly throughout his body. But Rose straightened up and said, "I'm sure I'll be fast asleep as soon as my head hits the pillow."

Her heavy-lidded eyes displayed the truth behind her words, the Consulting Detective deduced. A less experienced detective may have mistaken her look for sultriness.

Rose dropped her arm from Sherlock's shoulders as he did from her waist. He gently threaded his fingers through hers and replied, "If you're asleep, I won't wake you. There's always the morning."

Rose returned Sherlock's affectionate smile with one of her own, lightly squeezed his fingers, then left him for the bedroom.

With a pang of regret, Sherlock watched Rose walk away from him. He knew she was exhausted. She had been spending every waking minute working at one of her three jobs, only two of them earning her an income. She needed the crisis centre work, she had said, to help her gain entry into the Forensic Psychology course later in the year. She had to volunteer enough hours there before they would even consider allowing her to counsel anybody, and it would be the number of hours she spent in counselling sessions that would count as a prerequisite for entering her course. Rose had a long way to go in that respect.

And she needed two income paying jobs, so she could save enough in order to study, when she would have less time to work.

Sherlock wished she would accept his help, financial or otherwise. There was John's old room upstairs, vacant, if she needed a place to stay with little or no rent. Sherlock would happily support her while she studied. He knew she wouldn't want that—something about the situation replicating their old arrangement of paying her to have sex with him, Sherlock surmised.

He leant back in his chair, mental exhaustion overtaking him at last. He could neither solve the mystery of where to place the DJ, nor how to help Rose and make her happy again. Sherlock briefly closed his eyes, resting his forehead in one hand, before he stood, ready to retire as well. When he entered his bedroom, he found Rose just as he expected to find her―fast asleep.

* * *

"Sherlock, no, I'm late already!"

She was protesting playfully, Sherlock concluded from Rose's tone. So he was still in with a chance. He could've kicked himself, though; he had slept in and so had Rose. But now she was going to be late for work and he had a raging erection. How to solve this little puzzle?

Sherlock had snuggled into her—they had both slept naked—but Rose had roused fully and had checked her phone that lay on Sherlock's bedside table, before they had even commenced any hanky-panky. And now she was out of bed, and halfway to the bathroom before Sherlock knew what was happening.

He sat up slowly, his mind hatching a plan where he would ring his brother, tell him that a network of terrorists had been keeping their supplies at Rose's entertainment store and were planning to ship them out that very morning. Before Rose had even taken one foot outside his flat, Sherlock was fully confident that his brother could get the Security Services to surround the building, thus making it impossible for Rose to get to work.

 _Hang on,_ he thought, his mind busily trying to patch up the holes that riddled his plan. He didn't even want Rose to get dressed, let alone take any steps toward freedom. He had to act quickly.

"Where's my phone?" he called out.

But Rose couldn't hear him, because she was already in the shower. Sherlock brooded for a moment. Time was of the essence. He stood, and hovered in the doorway of his ensuite.

"There's been a terrorist threat to the London Underground," he said to Rose, who was washing her hair.

"What?" she shouted over the cascading water.

"Terrorist threat," Sherlock repeated a little louder. He had never watched Rose taking a shower before, except for that time in the brothel, and even then he had turned his back on her because he was embarrassed. He was going to do no such thing this morning. Plus she was putting on a bit of a show, he was sure of it. Surely her hair didn't require that much scalp massaging? The elevation of her arms lifted her breasts a little, making them perkier, Sherlock observed, tilting his head to one side. He scrutinised her further, and in an entirely scientific way of course, he noted how the water droplets took their time pooling, caressing and sliding sensuously along the curves of—

"Which stations?" Rose called out, abruptly halting Sherlock's scientific observations.

"Sorry, what?"

"Which stations are closed?"

"Er... from here to... ah... there," Sherlock replied, his voice rasping slightly.

Rose laughed, and pushed open the shower door a little. "Sorry, I can't hear properly."

"Ah... Westminster, to... wherever you work."

Rose closed the door and chuckled again. "I'll catch a cab then."

"No cabs sorry. Just noticed there was a massive recall on all sparkplugs used in black cabs in the Greater London area. Looks like you're stuck here for the day."

Rose pushed the door open again. "Why don't you come in? I know you want to."

"You know no such thing. And anyway, what a ridiculous idea. There isn't any room for both of us to wash ourselves."

"You'd be surprised what we can do in here. Come on," she beckoned, stretching out a hand to Sherlock.

Sherlock scowled, but relented anyway, allowing Rose to guide him into the shower stall.

 _Stupid idea_ , he thought. _Just wait until Rose complains that she can't move about. What's she trying to do—conserve water?_

"Now we're killing two birds with one stone," Rose said, lathering the soap in her hands before massaging the suds into Sherlock's chest. "I needed to have a shower and you needed my assistance."

"I don't..." Sherlock began, a curious sensation sweeping through him, "ah... need you to bathe me."

"I'm not talking about bathing you," Rose whispered, her lathered hands navigating lower still. "I'm talking about the very personal attention you were seeking." Rose nibbled Sherlock's throat as his breathing became ragged. "Firstly, it's not a waltz," she murmured. "So you should feel my breasts pressed up against you." One hand stole lower, and Sherlock sighed as Rose ended the torment.

 _Rose is a genius,_ Sherlock thought, his lips gliding along her neck and jaw as he held her close. Fictional terrorist plots and inoperative taxis disappeared from his mind. _Why didn't I think of this?_

* * *

Rose hastened to the top of the steps of the tube station and out onto Baker Street. Her eyes quickly scanned the street on both sides, and up ahead toward Sherlock's flat. She didn't notice anybody loitering, no one pretending to read newspapers while peering surreptitiously over the top, so she deemed the area to be free of celebrity stalkers. Sherlock Holmes was probably old news now, she thought, as she strode purposefully toward number 221.

In her haste to relieve Sherlock of his burden this morning, and quickly dress herself for work, Rose had left her mobile phone behind. She felt naked without it, but was able to get away shortly after lunch and had just enough time to make a quick trip to Baker Street and back.

With a couple more furtive glances stolen in both directions along the street, Rose unlocked the front door and swiftly entered the building. Sherlock had told her that his day entailed visiting the florist, a jeweller, and the tailor, then dropping by John's clinic to show the betrothed couple the latest design for the wedding invitations. So Rose expected his flat to be empty, and she would only be in and out herself, since she was required back at work by 2pm.

Ignoring the half-opened living room door at the top of the stairs, Rose immediately hastened through the doorway leading to the kitchen. The door creaked a little when she pushed it open wider. As she strode toward the back of the kitchen, she heard a ruffle of paper, then a crash, sounding as if several files had tumbled from the living room table to the floor. The was a loud tut followed by muttered swearing.

 _Still faffing about with his scale model,_ Rose thought, smiling to herself. "Just getting my phone, don't worry!" she called out to Sherlock as she continued into his bedroom. She recalled their morning's activities with smug satisfaction. She was glad she could still introduce Sherlock to new experiences. He had learnt a lot during their time together, but sometimes he still seemed like an innocent virgin.

Rose immediately spied her forgotten phone on Sherlock's bedside table. Retrieving it, she swiftly navigated through her missed calls and messages, slowly emerging from the room as footsteps made their way from the living room and stopped at the doorway to the kitchen. Rose went to glance up as she hastily typed a reply to her irate mother. She remarked to the detective, "You distracted me this morning, you naughty—"

But the person who hovered in the doorway, and looked at Rose with an expression of curiosity mixed with mild amusement was not the Consulting Detective. This woman was much shorter than Rose's lover, and had straight blonde hair, in sharp contrast to Sherlock's dark, curly locks.

"You're... not Sherlock," Rose remarked unnecessarily.

"No," said Mary Morstan, folding her arms in front of her, and a faint smile gracing her features. "I'm not."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As a lot of the suburban exterior shots in the show are actually filmed in Wales, I had to find a suitable London area to pose as the location for Billy's drug house. I had already researched Canning Town for my other fic, so why not use it twice! I thought I'd read somewhere that the building was a college, so I kept that idea, plus, when Mary parks the car, it looks like she's in a vacant car park. Making it an old college would give a reason why there'd be a carpark adjacent to it.
> 
> The location of the wedding as written on the wedding invitation is Sutton Mallet, which is actually in Somerset in the west of England and a good 4 hours by train from London according to Google maps. I think the filming was done in Bristol, which is still a couple of hours away. So I've taken enormous liberties and geographically moved it to Berkshire, just out of Newbury. I mean, look how casually Sherlock and Mrs Hudson sat and discussed tea and biscuits on the morning of John and Mary's wedding when they should've been high-tailing it to Somerset in time for a noon wedding. Would've made more sense for them to have travelled the day before and stayed two nights, before and after the wedding. Madness! With me putting the wedding in Berkshire, they only have to travel for an hour or so.
> 
> The invitation (if you freeze-frame Sherlock's flashback) also states that the wedding is on the 18th of May, which is consistent with Mary saying in TEH that they wanted a spring wedding. John's blog says August, but I don't know why that is. I'm ignoring that date because it doesn't make sense.


	31. I Can Tell When You're Fibbing

**Chapter 31 - I Can Tell When You're Fibbing**

"I...um..." Rose said, vaguely waving her phone in front of her.

"Left your phone behind," the blonde woman finished for her, still smiling pleasantly. Additionally she raised an eyebrow, prompting Rose to swallow the lump in her throat.

"Yes," Rose said, laughing awkwardly.

Rose recognised this woman; her photo was on the wall above Sherlock's couch.  _The bride-to-be._

Rose tried to quell her rising fear, and her smile froze on her face. "You must be Mary," she said, walking toward Sherlock's visitor. She offered her hand and added, "I'm Rose."

Mary's smiled widened, and she returned Rose's handshake firmly, before tilting her head slightly. "I don't think I've heard Sherlock mention you before, Rose," Mary said.

Rose could feel a warm heat spreading across her cheeks. Although Mary's expression was light and pleasant, there was something about her penetrating gaze that Rose found disconcerting.

"It's... because... he doesn't like to draw too much attention to me," she replied.

"Oh? Why's that?" Mary asked gently, and Rose noticed that the woman's eyes flickered behind her toward Sherlock's bedroom. "If you don't mind me asking, of course."

 _Oh, God,_ Rose thought.  _She knows I found my phone in Sherlock's room._

"I...ah... he doesn't..." Rose's throat felt constricted. She had no choice; she had to maintain the same lie she had already told Sherlock's landlady, even though Sherlock hadn't been impressed at the time. "He doesn't want people to know he's seeing a therapist... a counsellor, really. I'm not actually qualified, yet."

"A  _therapist_?" Mary repeated.

Rose could hear the incredulity in Mary's voice, so she scrambled for details. "We keep it quite casual... I knew him years ago, before he—" She paused, unable to speak so bluntly about Sherlock's fall from the rooftop, however she noted that Mary's expression had softened, understanding the subject matter under discussion. "I was a psychology student back then, and I was researching his cases in regard to the criminal psyche. Well, anyway, since he returned from abroad, he finds it... therapeutic, I guess, to talk to me about... some issues he has."

"I see."

"But he doesn't want people to know," Rose gushed. "Especially John. You know, his mind is the most important part of him, and he'd hate for John—well, anyone really—to think that there's something wrong with his mind."

"Of course," Mary agreed, smiling briefly. "His secret is safe with me."

Rose heaved a sigh in relief. "Well, I'd best be going," she said, moving toward the kitchen door to the landing. "I just dashed out during my lunch break."

"It was lovely meeting you, Rose."

"All the best with the wedding," Rose said, smiling amiably at Mary.

Rose resisted the urge to sprint downstairs, although her heart was hammering in her chest.  _That was a close call. It could've been John who was waiting to see Sherlock. I can't keep coming here like this, nor tell lies to all and sundry about Sherlock's supposed mental health issues._

As if her nerves weren't already shot, she reached the bottom of the staircase just as the front door to the street opened along the passageway in front of her. She halted abruptly by the last step, not daring to breathe and wishing she could disappear into the floor.

"Rose!" Sherlock exclaimed, his expression brightening at the sight of her.

Rose didn't inhale again until Sherlock had closed the door behind him, confirming for her that John Watson wasn't accompanying him. Sherlock's face fell upon noticing Rose's expression.

"What's wrong? What's happened?" Sherlock said urgently, striding toward her.

"Oh, I... ah... forgot my phone," Rose replied, keeping her voice low, and once again feebly holding out her mobile as evidence. "Just left work to get it, so I can't stay."

"Not even for a cup of tea?" Sherlock asked suggestively, before enveloping Rose in his arms. He bent his head low and murmured into her ear, "And biscuits?" He pressed his lips to the delicate skin behind Rose's earlobe. She shuddered then gently pushed against him.

"Not now," she whispered, trying to suppress the longing Sherlock had aroused in her. "You have a visitor."

Sherlock abruptly pulled back and furrowed his brow. "Who? A client?"

"Mary."

The detective's face lit up. "Oh! Good. Did you meet her? Sure you can't stay for a cuppa?" he added, a little less lasciviously this time.

"I did meet her. She's... lovely. I'm sorry—I do have to go, though."

Rose could tell that Sherlock's brain had skipped ahead several thousand thoughts already. He quickly looked at his watch.

"Is John up there as well?" he asked.

"Uh, no."  _Thank goodness._

Sherlock tutted. "He's useless. I don't know what he's playing at. He's been dodging us all morning. And I thought he was the type of doctor who _didn't_ make house calls. Why he had to go look at Mr Carmody's gout, I'll never know. We're supposed to be finalising the design for the invitations. Did Mary show you?"

"Sherlock," Rose said, lightly grasping Sherlock's arm, endeavouring to bring him back to the here and now. "I may have told another lie."

Sherlock fully focussed his attention back to Rose. He narrowed his eyes at her and stated, "You told Mary you were my therapist."

"Yes."

Sherlock's shoulders drooped and he bowed his head as he exhaled.

"I raced in to get my phone," Rose added, when Sherlock said nothing except to rake an irate hand through his hair. "And I didn't realise she was in the living room. She saw me coming out of your bedroom."

This snippet of information piqued Sherlock's interest. "You were coming out of my bedroom?" he repeated, the corners of his mouth curving into a smile.

"It's not funny!" Rose hissed, her voice barely above a whisper. "You're going to have to tell her why my phone was in your room. I couldn't think of a reason, not that she asked."

Sherlock shrugged. "I'm not going to tell her anything."

"Sherlock, you have to!"

"Only if she asks me directly. You don't go around offering up information like that. Only lies have detail, Rose."

"Well, can you think of something? I could tell by the way she was looking at me that she thought something was up."

Sherlock ventured to direct a warm smile at Rose. "That's because you're a terrible liar."

"Sherlock," Rose said sternly, arching an eyebrow.

"Okay, fine," Sherlock sighed. "What's one more person in my life who thinks I'm having a mental breakdown?"

"That would be one less person who knows I was a prostitute."

There was an uneasy silence as Sherlock processed Rose's last statement. Rose had looked away from Sherlock, so he stepped closer and cupped a hand to her neck, gently stroking her jaw with his thumb. "Sorry, Rose. Just ignore me. I'm an idiot."

Rose smiled warmly at Sherlock, and placed her hand over his. She wished she didn't keep overreacting to the fact of her previous occupation. "I owe you an apology. I'm sorry I'm spreading this lie to everyone who knows you. I'm not very good at thinking on my feet."

Sherlock studied Rose's eyes, which were glistening in sincerity. A tiny tweak in his heart gave him pause. He dropped his hand from Rose's cheek, bringing her hand with his. He threaded his fingers through hers and sighed deeply. "What does it matter, really," he said, shrugging. "It's easy to believe that my stint abroad—being undercover for two years, pretending to be dead to people who cared about me—would leave some kind of emotional scarring. Why wouldn't I need a therapist?"

 _Why wouldn't I need you?_ Sherlock's mind ventured to add.

Rose gave Sherlock's hand a quick squeeze and leant forward to lightly brush Sherlock's lips with hers. In that moment, when Sherlock's heart seemed to swell involuntarily, he felt a sudden rush of panic. The fear of leaving himself weakened and vulnerable surged through him. As Rose eased back, Sherlock stiffened and pulled himself a little taller.

"At least that's how I would be if I had an inferior mind," he intoned.

"Which you don't," Rose said pleasantly, not noticing Sherlock's shift in demeanour.

"Which I don't," he repeated.

Rose dropped Sherlock's hand and took a step back. She readjusted the strap of her handbag on her shoulder as she made a move to leave.

"I'll try to avoid offering up any information from now on," she said. "But I did ask Mary not to mention it to John."

"Why would you say that?"

"To maintain the illusion that you don't want everyone to know."

Two creases appeared in Sherlock's brow as he tutted once more. "So I'm telling John that I'm inviting  _just a friend_  to his wedding, but Mary and Mrs Hudson will think that I want my  _therapist_ there?"

Rose saw this as her get out of jail free card. She volunteered, "Or I could just not go to the wedding."

"I know you're trying to get out of it, Rose. And don't think I've forgotten about the dancing lessons," Sherlock added pointedly.

"I have to get to work," Rose sighed. It looked as though they were going to go around in circles. "We'll talk about this later. Will you come over?"

Sherlock's face softened and he narrowed the gap between them. With his mouth hovering over Rose's, he whispered, "Of course." He then pressed a warm, tender kiss to Rose's lips. "Goodbye, Rose," he whispered.

"See you later," Rose bid him quietly before she proceeded along the passageway to the front door.

Sherlock had just ascended a couple of steps when Rose called him back to get him to check along the street for signs of paparazzi, although she actually meant  _for signs of John Watson._  When Sherlock gave her the all clear, Rose swiftly exited.

Sherlock regarded the closed door to the street as he leant against the wall along the passageway.

 _Why the sudden panic attack in Rose's presence?_  he asked himself.  _What was that deep emotion that preceded it that caused my mind to put up a wall of defence?_

Sherlock shook his head imperceptibly, as if to lose those thoughts. He was far too busy to dwell on such things. He had a wedding to organise, and there was no time for romance, or whatever, when he had such a long To Do list to deal with.

With a renewed energy in his step, Sherlock bounded up the stairs, two at a time. He found Mary Morstan sitting at the living room table, holding swatches of dressmaking fabric against the cardboard scale model of the reception venue.

Glancing up as the detective entered the room, she remarked, "This shade of lilac is perfect."

"Excellent," Sherlock murmured, with a self-satisfied twinkle in his eye. He hung up his coat on the back of the door, then also shrugged out of his jacket, which he draped over a chair. "Just going to change into something more comfortable," he said, making his way through the kitchen. "Did you put the kettle on? We've got work to do."

Sherlock thought that moving about and talking quickly would somehow avoid the topic of conversation that he knew to be foremost on Mary's mind.

"And where's that useless husband of yours?" he called back.

"Fiancé," Mary corrected him. "He's on his way, apparently."

Sherlock emerged from his bedroom several minutes later, still clad in his shirt and trousers, but with the addition of his scarlet dressing gown.

"And now... the wedding invitation," he murmured, opening his laptop and tapping at the keyboard.

"I just met a friend of yours," Mary commented pleasantly.

"Mmm?" Sherlock asked semi-distractedly without looking up.

"Or perhaps not so much a friend, as..." Mary remarked, leaving her words hanging.

Sherlock pivoted his computer around in order to show Mary the screen. "Invitation," he declared proudly.

"Ooh, lovely!" Mary exclaimed, peering closer.

"Actually, it would lend a touch of formality if we wrote both your names in full," Sherlock added, gesturing toward the screen.

"Let's have a look."

Sherlock proceeded to edit the text while Mary straightened up and stood to one side of him. Sherlock chuckled as he inserted 'Hamish' between 'John' and 'Watson.'

"Oh, stop it," Mary admonished him. "You know he hates it." She folded her arms in front of her and walked behind Sherlock to his other side, while he worked. "She told me about the counselling, Sherlock," she began softly. "Personally, I think it's great..." When Sherlock only hummed non-committedly, Mary ventured, "Interesting that she left her phone in your bedroom."

Sherlock was in two minds about acknowledging Mary's comment and therefore giving her the go-ahead to continue the topic of conversation. But he said nothing, and continued editing the bridal couple's names.

"I was wondering why her  _phone_  would be in  _your bedroom,_ " Mary repeated.

There was a continued silence, filled in only by the tapping of the keys on Sherlock's laptop.

"There," Sherlock said, moving aside in order to show Mary the modified invitation. "The layout appears richer with a block of text for the names."

Mary hummed her agreement, then persisted, "So why would Rose's phone end up in  _your bedroom_?"

Sherlock was startled at hearing Mary utter Rose's name specifically, although his expression revealed nothing. He was fully prepared to brush off the incident, but he also felt fiercely protective and loyal to Rose and her request for privacy. Still, he couldn't see why he shouldn't have a little fun as a result of the encounter between two of the women in his life.

He heaved a dramatic sigh, then said, "I can see you're not going to let this go."

Mary shrugged, and gave Sherlock a half smile. "She's seems lovely, and I'm sure she's a competent counsellor, or whatever she is. I just thought it odd that her phone was left in your room."

Sherlock tutted. "Okay, we were having sex," he declared defeatedly. "There you have it—brilliant deduction, Ms Morstan. A Scandal in Baker Street."

There was a pregnant pause while Sherlock continued to stare at his screen, until a hint of mischief crinkled his eyes. He smiled broadly as he turned his attention back to Mary, whose own face had frozen in shock.

"She's supposed to be actively listening while I talk about whatever I like," Sherlock explained, feigning exasperation. "This morning she was tapping away at her phone; I found it extremely irritating, and unprofessional, so I confiscated it." He saw Mary's face soften, almost in relief at a more likely explanation that was consistent with the Sherlock Holmes she knew. Sherlock turned back to the screen and murmured, "And that's the last time we ever mention my  _little sessions_ again."

After a moment, Mary cleared her throat and replied, "Agreed."

Sherlock saved the invitation document while Mary looked on from behind him. Eventually, she placed her hands onto his shoulders and leant in closer. Speaking affectionately, and in a low voice, she joked, "Much easier if we just pretend you're secretly having sex with someone."

Mary swiftly left Sherlock's side, making her way to the kitchen.

Sherlock came out of his initial shock quickly enough to quip, "Not really. I  _do_  have a reputation to maintain."

Mary chuckled as she grabbed the kettle and took it over to the sink. Sherlock carefully scrutinised her retreating form. Some days he just didn't read Mary properly. Clearly she was of a superior intellect to his former flatmate, but how much did she really deduce about his relationship with Rose? Whatever she believed, though, she seemed prepared to keep Sherlock's secret, and that was good enough for him.

"Okay, what have I missed?" a weary ex-army captain sighed as he entered the living room.

Sherlock eyed his friend with suspicion. "And how is Mr Carmody?"

"Good," John replied. "His eczema's clearing up nicely."

"Hello, fiancé," Mary called out from the kitchen.

"I thought he had gout," Sherlock volunteered.

John cleared his throat, and fixed his detective friend with a weary look. " _Eczema_ is code for  _doctor-patient confidentiality_. I can't give you any details of course."

"You wasted no time in telling me every little detail concerning his gout this morning. The funny thing about lies, John, is that—"

"Okay, you got me, you annoying git!" John replied irritably. He held up a small package and said, "If you noticed on your little list of things to do for the wedding, it says to buy the best man a gift. Since you can't buy your own gift, this was something I had to do myself. Okay? Now you've ruined the surprise."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes as he examined the package from afar. "I've only ruined the surprise if you bought me a pair of cufflinks to go with the ridiculous wedding outfit you're making me wear. Now  _that shirt_  doesn't have buttons on the cuffs, unlike all the shirts I already own. And since you know that I've thrown out every pair of useless cufflinks I've ever received as gifts, then you knew I currently didn't own a pair."

John bowed his head in defeat. He then threw the package onto the living room table in front of Sherlock and said, "Well done. You completely ruined your own surprise."

He left Sherlock and ambled into the kitchen where he greeted his fiancée. Sherlock retrieved the package and gave it a light shake before he tutted, tossing it back onto the table, unopened. He brooded in front of the laptop while the tinkering of tea cups and murmuring between the betrothed couple emanated from the kitchen.

"I need both your final approvals before I send the invitation to the printing company," he eventually called out.

He heard a mutter from the kitchen before both Mary and John emerged, John carrying two cups of tea, one for Sherlock, while Mary carried her own. Sherlock moved aside, so the prospective bride and groom could see the screen clearly.

John heaved an exasperated sigh. "You've put my middle name on it."

"We've filled out loads of forms before using your full name," Mary reasoned.

John continued staring at the screen, clearly unimpressed. "Does it have to be on the invitation?"

"It's your name," Mary responded. "It's—"

"—funny," Sherlock said.

"—traditional," finished Mary, simultaneously.

John bowed his head in defeat. "Okay. Fine," he muttered.

* * *

Rose planted one final kiss onto Sherlock's lips before deciding to get up and dress for an evening shift at the strip club.

"We should try it in the bathtub in your flat next time," she murmured suggestively against his lips.

Sherlock banded his arm around Rose, preventing her from pulling away. "Why?"

"Because you like the shower so much," Rose teased him. "The bath will work so much better for us."

"How can we both fit?"

Rose couldn't help but smile at Sherlock's puzzled expression. He really was a babe in arms, sometimes.

"Can  _you_  fit into your bathtub?" she asked.

"Of course I can."

Rose moved from the side of the bed where she had been leaning over Sherlock, and climbed on top of him, so that she was straddling him. "And therefore so can I," she declared, her eyes twinkling mischievously.

Sherlock chuckled in response, a low, devilish rumble full of wicked intent. He had risen from his pillow so he could lock Rose in an embrace. "Just where I want you to be," he breathed into her ear, sending a delicious ripple of pleasure long Rose's spine.

"Sherlock, no," Rose protested weakly. "I have to get to work. You don't have to... There's no way you could be—" Rose's words died on a gasp as Sherlock pressed their hips together.

"What were you saying?" he challenged, letting the evidence speak for itself.

He pivotted Rose on his lap, twisting them both until he could lower his lover to the bed. He dipped his head and cut off Rose's protest when his mouth came down hard on hers. His lips and tongue seduced and teased with practised skill. Sherlock could feel Rose begin to respond beneath him. He knew she would consent and give in all too readily. Their previous session almost half an hour ago was over far too quickly—at least for Sherlock it had been. Sherlock knew it was his fault that Rose didn't get to finish, but they had reached a very significant milestone in their relationship and he was very keen to experience that sensation again.

They had tried to have sex in the shower without the use of a condom.

Of course the shower part was all Rose's fault, Sherlock reasoned. If she hadn't given him a taste of what that could be like back in his flat last week, he wouldn't have been thinking of trying it again whenever his mind drifted to Rose—something that was happening quite frequently these days. Their first shower session in Baker Street had been quite one-sided, with Sherlock basically receiving Rose's skillful attention, while she had received nothing in return. In Sherlock's defence, she had masturbated him them left him alone in the shower post-orgasm. By the time Sherlock had wandered out, still vaguely stunned at what had happened, Rose was half-dressed and desperate to get to work on time. She had chuckled lightly at Sherlock apologising profusely, making him vow to pay her back later—which he had, in full, but in her bed at Leinster Gardens and not her shower.

Sherlock had been hoping that this time round the experience would be more mutually beneficial. This time, he wanted to actually have sex in the shower, whatever logistics that entailed.

The opportunity presented itself when he lay waiting that evening for Rose to return from working at the entertainment store. He'd grown bored of investigating John and Mary's wedding guests, half-hoping one of them would be secretly plotting John Watson's demise just so that the Consulting Detective could uncover it. The only likely candidate would've been John's cousin's ex-boyfriend's mother. The woman had once accidentally given her neighbour's dog a leftover corncob, and the poor thing had choked on it and died. Since the woman herself wasn't invited to the wedding, Sherlock had tried to find several ways where John's cousin could therefore pose a danger as an invited guest, but the connections were pretty weak, non-existent, in fact. Even so, the detective made sure that corn would not be on the menu.

Rose had been surprised to find Sherlock lolling about on her sofa, dressed in his shirt and trousers and not his pyjamas and dressing gown as he usually did. She advised him that tonight's rostered cloakroom attendant had called in sick, and she had been asked to pick up the shift at the strip club. Therefore, she only had an hour to shower, change and catch the tube out to Shoreditch. Sherlock's ears had pricked up at the magic word.  _Shower._

He almost fell from the sofa as he scrambled after Rose. The woman was oblivious to the flurry of excitement behind her as she rushed into the bathroom. Rose had just turned around to close the bathroom door, and emitted a yelp of surprise when she found Sherlock blocking the doorway.

"I need a shower as well," he gushed, his nimble fingers moving like lightning to unfasten his shirt buttons. He strode forward, making the door shut behind him with one kick of his heel.

Rose froze, an expression of amusement growing on her face. "You what?"

"Shower, Rose. Hurry up," he urged. His shirt fell open and Sherlock began pulling Rose's top from the waistband of her skirt.

Rose took a step backwards. "I'm fine thanks," she said, emitting a tiny laugh. "What are you..."

Sherlock had opened the door to the shower stall and turned the hot water tap on. "Get the hot water going first," he murmured to himself, as if reciting instructions previously committed to memory. "Rose," he said, turning his attention back to the woman who now stood with her hands on her hips and not in the state of undress that he was expecting. "I thought you were in a hurry?"

Rose carefully folded her arms in front of her. Raising one eyebrow, she said, "Yes, I'm in a hurry. And I don't have time for your... shenanigans."

"Not  _shenanigans_ ," Sherlock muttered, reaching back into the shower and turning on the cold tap until the water reached the desired temperature. He looked back at Rose who remained immobile. "Oh, for God's sake," he snapped. Grabbing Rose by her elbow, he backed into the shower stall, pulling her along with him.

Sherlock had moved so suddenly that Rose didn't have time to react until they both were drenched. Though in shock, she still managed to gasp, "Sherlock," before the man himself had pressed her up against the shower screen and his hot, eager mouth was upon hers. Surprise and bewilderment were cast aside, giving way to arousal and then passion. This was the wild, abandoned Sherlock Holmes she had experienced once before, against the wall outside her kitchen—where his own actions had left him reeling and ashamed.

A Sherlock Holmes consumed with raw passion easily tapped into the primitive desire Rose herself held deep within. Her heart pounded against his and her mouth responded just as hungrily. When her hands drifted to his waist and she felt his damp shirt clinging to him, she couldn't help but emit a muffled laugh against Sherlock's mouth at the situation in which she had found herself.

Sherlock's mouth left hers and he frowned at her in disapproval. " _Now_  may I undress you?" he rasped, grasping her top once more and tugging it the rest of the way out from her skirt waistband.

With her top peeled from her upper half, Sherlock pulled Rose's camisole vest over her head, dropping it with a splash to the floor where it lay sodden along with her work blouse. It almost became a desperate race as to who could undress whom the quickest, with the added difficulty of shower-drenched clothing not being at all cooperative. Sherlock made a mental note, when he was able to, that this was not the most efficient way they could've approached a love-making session in the shower.

Naked and slicked with sudsy soap, was Sherlock's next achievement for them both. He could feel Rose straining against him as his hands streaked over her.

"Okay," Sherlock said breathlessly, coming up for air. They were at a crucial juncture, and an important decision had to be made right now.

Rose regarded Sherlock, her eyes moist with desire. Her mouth curved into a smile, and she nodded her agreement imperceptibly, although no other words had passed between them.

Sherlock's heart rate quickened and he hitched Rose up by the hips. She hooked her legs around his waist, and held her breath. A low moan broke from Sherlock as he entered her, after which he barely suppressed a curse. Sensations flooded through him, radiating from his midriff. His breathing came fast and shallow. Sherlock could feel his control slipping, so he kissed Rose long, slow and deep, and had it in his mind that he should really employ his new found technique from Tibet.

When Rose gasped his name, Sherlock knew he was seconds away from his release. He withdrew immediately, gently lowered Rose, and said one word. "Bed."

The water was cut, and the couple retreated to Rose's bedroom, where, wet and naked they fell onto the sheets. To Sherlock's horror, Rose took the upper hand; she was upon him seconds. She moved for him, her eyes full of purpose. He thought she would take it slowly, to give him time to tend to her needs. But with the practised skill of a woman formerly in the sex industry, she brought him to the brink and beyond, until he lay breathless and sated beneath her. But he didn't like to be outmanoeuvred.

"Rose," he said feebly, as she lay down beside him. "Let me—"

"No," she commanded, pushing his hands away. "Just enjoy the moment."

"Are you joking?" he struggled to ask, as his chest continued to heave.

"I'm fine," she said in between breaths. "I told you I have to go to work."

Sherlock brooded as he waited for his breathing to become steady. He had failed to satisfy Rose in the shower once more. Why did she have to spoil everything?

"Don't go yet," he said eventually. "Lie with me for a little while." He stretched out an arm, inviting Rose in for their routine post-coital cuddle.

Rose brought her hair together in a twist, and lay it over her shoulder as she always did before settling down onto Sherlock's chest. She was sorry he was disappointed, especially on such a significant occasion as not using any protection, but she really did have to go. She'd lie with him for an obligatory three minutes, then she'd get up.

Unfortunately, feeling content and secure in Sherlock's embrace had Rose delay her departure for more than half an hour. She made her quip about having sex in Sherlock's bathtub, and before she knew what was happening, the detective-genius was upon her, fulfilling her every desire.

She decided to call in sick later that evening.

* * *

Sherlock was quite aware that Rose was no longer comfortable with visiting him at Baker Street, and he wasn't backward in letting her know how irritating he found that notion. He decided that Rose was working far too hard to obtain credentials that were basically in line with what he did, and he was largely self-taught. Why did she have to jump through all these hoops for a bunch of morons? She should spend more time hanging out with him, making wedding lists, and poking into the lives of the dull and ordinary. It would be much more fun if the tasks were shared.

"Many hands make light work, or some rubbish," he'd said to her.

Rose concluded that Sherlock was wearing far too many nicotine patches that day.

When wedding guest investigations the following week took an interesting turn, Sherlock thought he'd have the opportunity to take Rose out of London for a while. The detective discovered that a couple that Mary had befriended a few years ago at God only knows where, had originated from Wisbech in Cambridgeshire, where the unsolved murder of an elderly woman had occurred just over a year ago. He jumped at the chance to visit the small market town, assuming Rose would be happy to accompany him, and to get her away from her pointless places of employment.

"A widow, found dead in her bungalow—she was stabbed, Rose, and set alight. Only her wedding ring and front door key were missing. These friends of Mary may have returned to their home town around that time. I need to speak to the neighbours."

When Rose cited work as her reason for not being able to take a mini-break from London, Sherlock proceeded to rant about Rose working far too much and having little time for him.

"We don't do anything except have sex," he said, pacing in the small confines of Rose's bedroom, wearing his dressing gown and pyjama bottoms, while Rose lay naked and curled underneath her sheet. It was a little after 2am.

"You're always too tired to listen to me talking about the wedding preparations, and you've dismissed following me around on any cases, or visiting me in Baker Street. Oh no, heaven forbid anyone sees you. I need someone who's around for more than just my physical needs. I need an intellectual sparring partner, no matter how inferior. I need someone to say idiotic things that will prompt me to come to the right conclusions. What's the point in having you around?"

"What  _is_  the point?" Rose replied sleepily. "Have you been smoking again?"

Suddenly Sherlock was looming over Rose's semi-slumbering form.

"You're either coming with me, or I'm going without you."

Rose slowly turned her head to look up into Sherlock's intense grey eyes. "Is there supposed to be a threat somewhere in there?"

Sherlock straightened up, furrowing his brow in thought. "I may not have thought that one through."

"So you're going without me," Rose sighed, closing her eyes and turning over. "Don't forget to lock the door on your way out."

When Rose woke early the next morning, and shuffled over to Sherlock's side of the bed, she was surprised to find a cold, empty, Consulting Detective-less space.

"Sherlock?" she called, sitting bolt upright.

Something told her he'd caught the early train to Cambridgeshire without her after all.

* * *

"Somebody's received a special love note, but no flowers tonight! Don't worry, you can have one of mine!"

Rose turned around after tagging and hanging up a ragged, navy blue peacoat and its companion, a black bomber jacket. Melody, a peroxide blonde, who was working on the doors to the main room tonight, handed Rose a small, pink envelope that Rose reluctantly accepted. She knew what day it was, or had been, as it was fast approaching midnight.

Rose frowned as Melody leant across the counter, eyeing the cloakroom attendant expectantly.

"You're somebody's special—"

"Don't you have doors to open for the clientele?" Rose asked in an irritable fashion, that was out of character for her at the Rendezvous.

Melody tutted then tottered away leaving Rose to feel guilty at snapping at the usually effervescent young woman. Rose had been feeling down for the last couple of days, since Sherlock had left for the capital of the Fens without saying goodbye. She frequently thought about ringing him, but if he was on a case—albeit a cold case and one that may or may not have anything to do with John and Mary's prospective wedding guests—he may resent the interruption.

Sighing deeply, Rose tore open the envelope revealing only one card this time. The front of it bore a rather gauche design, prominently featuring an embossed pink love heart. Her own heart skipped a beat, nevertheless, as she opened the card and immediately recognised Sherlock's hurried scrawl.

_I'm sorry I left in the middle of the night. You will be pleased to know that I did give you a goodbye kiss while you were still asleep. I'm actually back in London now, so could you please meet me at the Pietra Miliare after you've finished work. The Grand Master Suite. I am aware that you're working in the cloakroom tonight, and that you'll be finished late. You don't need to bring anything. —SH_

_P.S. Yes, I do know what day it is._

_X … that's a hello kiss, by the way._

Rose stared dumbfounded at Sherlock's message for a moment longer. The Pietra Miliare was one of the most expensive hotels in central London.  _And surely the Grand Master Suite is the most expensive room..._

What on earth was the man doing?

Rose was rostered on until midnight. Was that Sherlock's plan—to have the card delivered only minutes before she was scheduled to finish, so she didn't have time to think about alternative arrangements?

"Rose," Frank the doorman called out. "Your cab's here."

"I didn't order a cab... no, wait!" she hurriedly called out, before Frank stepped back outside. "Could you hold it for me?"

Rose had already been greeted by her replacement, Mia, Gary the owner's niece. So she knew she could skip out a minute early.

Rose hastened through to the main club area, after ordering Melody to watch the cloakroom for her. Rose's seniority over most of the other staff gave her the authority to issue orders, but she was bemused to see the young blonde make her way across the entrance to stand by the cloakroom counter looking surly.

At the back of the club lay a rabbit's warren of private rooms, and beyond them, behind a locked door manned by a security guard, was the dancers' dressing room. Rose found Mia there, gossiping amongst the dancers who were in various stages of undress, and asked the young woman if she minded starting a few minutes early. The other dancers were only too happy to see Rose, their in-house agony aunt, and they loved it when she had the time to sit down and have a chat with them.

Tonight, though, Rose had no time for chit-chat. She announced to the room at large, "I have a last-minute date. Does anybody have any street clothes I can borrow?"

.


	32. But Anyway, Let's Talk About John

**Chapter 32 - But Anyway, Let's Talk About John**

Rose watched the concierge as he dialled the number to the Grand Master Suite. She had already entered the lift moments prior, only to find that access to the suites required a special key card. She had sent Sherlock a text, but he hadn't replied, so she paced about the reception area frequently glancing at her phone, only to be set upon by the concierge.

After the well-groomed and quietly-spoken man had discreetly spoken to someone on the other end of the phone—presumably Sherlock—the concierge gestured toward the lift, indicating that Rose precede him inside. He waved a key card over a small panel, and once an indicator light turned to green, he pressed the button to the luxury suites. After what felt like an interminable amount of time, with Rose receiving many an unimpressed sideways glance, the door to the top floor opened, and again the concierge gestured for Rose to alight before him.

As there were two sets of double doors on this floor, apart from the single door at the end of the corridor marked 'Exit', Rose paused and asked the concierge to direct her to the Grand Master Suite. He indicated the set on the right, so Rose remarked, "I'm fine from here, thank you."

The man sniffed, then replied in a tone dripping with condescension, "Permit me, miss." He tapped lightly on the door, and the uncomfortable silence that ensured made Rose's skin crawl. She wished he would just go.

After what seemed like an eternity, Sherlock opened one of the double doors.

"Your...  _guest,_  sir," the concierge announced, gifting Sherlock with an unctuous smile.

"Thank you," Sherlock replied dismissively, before the detective raked his eyes over Rose.

Rose's heart sank at Sherlock's furrowed brow, and before he could get a word out in greeting, she brusquely pushed her way into the room, anxious to get as far away from the concierge as possible.

Rose stopped abruptly a few paces into the suite. She stared, mesmerised, at the opulent Victorian-era furnishings set in neutral tones, and the dark timber furniture ornamented with gold trim. She had never felt more out of place in her life.

"Hmm, let me see," Sherlock said after closing the door, and coming up behind Rose. "You were obviously concerned about showing up in a prestige hotel wearing your uniform from the strip club, so you've asked your dancer friends if you could borrow their clothes."

Rose turned to him, her expression barely masking her previous discomfort.

Sherlock continued, unabated. "Although you probably requested their most conservative articles of clothing, you still couldn't avoid a plunging neckline and tight-fitting skirt, although the length is semi-acceptable. Still, you received obvious looks of disdain from our friend at reception, perhaps even lascivious glances directed at your cleavage. My hesitance in greeting you warmly due to my surprise at your uncharacteristic appearance has only lessened your feelings of self-worth. An arrival at this late hour, as a guest—with no luggage—to a single gentleman in an expensive hotel suite, has you mistaken for a high class escort. Ergo, I've made you feel like a prostitute. Again."

All of a sudden, Rose's troubled expression brightened into a smile, and she chuckled lightly at Sherlock's very detailed deduction of the situation. "No," she countered, walking back toward Sherlock. With half a laugh, she wound her arms about his neck and said, "I made  _myself_  feel like a prostitute again. You did no such thing."

Sherlock bent his head, his eyes glistening with warmth as a smile grew on his face. "Hello, Rose," he said in a low register before his lips met hers. He kissed her with practiced precision, making her doubts and anxieties dissolve underneath his soft touch.

When they drew back, and Rose had caught her breath, she asked, "Why are we here?"

"Isn't it obvious?"

"Valentine's Day?" Rose asked dubiously, for this was Sherlock Holmes who was stood in front of her, and the day had long ended, it being well after midnight.

"Yes," Sherlock confirmed for her, a note of derision in his tone. "Although that wasn't the initial reason for coming here... just an unfortunate coincidence."

Rose smiled uneasily. It seemed a bit silly then. She was never a big Valentine's Day advocate, and neither was Sherlock, that much was clear. So why celebrate it?

"My original motive is this way." Sherlock grabbed Rose's hand and led her to a doorway across the luxurious sitting room. They stopped outside and Sherlock placed his hand on the doorknob. "You mentioned having a bath together," he explained, his expression barely masking an underlying enthusiasm. "Or more specifically, having sex in one. And I happen to know you like a long, hot soak in my tub, not having one in your own flat. Since you won't come to Baker Street anymore, I thought I'd find one in another location, for a... ah... treat."

"Kind of a..."

"Extravagance?" Sherlock finished. He sighed, then lamented, "Try finding a hotel within central London whose rooms are equipped with adequate-sized bathtubs, and on Valentine's Day."

He opened the door, pushing it inwards, revealing a spacious marble bathroom with an enormous corner bath into which water was currently flowing.

"It's taking an age to fill," Sherlock remarked to a dumbstruck Rose. "Sorry. I was in here when you sent your text, and didn't hear my phone." He crossed the room and bent over the tub to test the temperature of the water with a quick swish of his hand. "Another fifteen minutes, I think."

Rose was again amused at Sherlock's new-found enthusiasm for different sexual experiences. She found her voice as Sherlock straightened up and sauntered over to her. Arching an eyebrow, she mused out loud, "Now, what can we do for the next fifteen minutes?"

Small creases appeared in Sherlock's brow, as he sought to admonish Rose.

"I'm saving myself for our bath together. Aren't you?"

"I guess so," she teased. Rose turned from Sherlock and made to exit the bathroom. "Anything to drink? I've had a crap evening."

Sherlock followed Rose back out to the main room, shutting the bathroom door on the noisy filling of the tub.

"There's an entire mini bar," he said, gesturing to an ornate drinks trolley adjacent to one of the majestic windows.

Rose shrugged out of her coat, revealing the rest of her attire, as she eyed the selection. She caught Sherlock scanning her from head to toe.

"Yes, you were right," she sighed. "Most of your deduction thing, that is. Not a conservative outfit among them. And they fussed about, wanting me to try on the most outrageous clothing. I'm sure they think I'm an old maid compared to them. Well, at least I managed to escape wearing my own underwear."

Sherlock fixed Rose with a half smile, picturing whatever was the collective noun for a group of strippers surrounding Rose and forcing garments upon her person.

He turned to the drinks trolley and asked, "What would you like?"

Rose grimaced and replied, "Actually tea would be lovely. I haven't put my feet up all day."

With a broad grin in agreement, Sherlock strode across the room to a side table that held an antique rotary dial telephone. He couldn't agree more about choosing a cup of the English brew over alcohol. He called down to reception and ordered a pot to be brought up to their room.

Sherlock settled onto the sofa next to Rose, who was wriggling her toes after removing her heels. He propped his legs up onto the coffee table, stretching out one arm along the length of the back of the sofa, behind Rose's head.

"How was... where did you go again?" she asked the detective. "Have you found any murderers amongst the guest list yet?"

Sherlock tutted and rolled his eyes. "No, but I gave the Cambridgeshire constabulary a nudge in the right direction. I can't believe they initially thought the victim had set fire to herself by accident."

Sherlock went on to explain about the victim's dementia, and a plot to ease her suffering with a co-conspirator. Rose only half listened. She closed her eyes, leaning her head onto Sherlock's arm and rubbed her fingertips across her brow.

"Aaand you're not listening," Sherlock finished.

Rose opened her eyes and smiled sheepishly at Sherlock. "I'm sorry. I'll be fine once I've had a cuppa."

"You're tired because you've been working two jobs—an all day shift at the entertainment store, followed by an all night shift at the strip club. And, if I'm not mistaken, you're on opening the shop tomorrow."

"No, I don't start til eleven. I swapped shifts with Gus."

"Oh good. Because check out is at ten. Unless you want to call in sick so I can book us another night?" Sherlock asked, his eyebrows raised in hope.

Rose shuffled in closer, now able to rest her head against Sherlock's chest. He curled his arm around her shoulders.

"Sounds wonderful," she sighed. "But taking sick days so I can get off with you is starting to become a bad habit."

"I wouldn't say 'bad,'" he joked.

Rose chuckled against his chest, but offered no further comment. She closed her eyes once more, and exhaled deeply.

"Don't fall asleep just yet," Sherlock said, his voice rumbling through his chest and directly into her ear.

Rose looked up at Sherlock to see him gazing at her with great affection, his face only inches from hers.

"I'm not physically tired, really," she said, lifting her head from his chest. "This entire day has just exhausted me mentally. Fucking Valentine's Day and its complete load of wank."

"A long soak in the bath will do you the world of good," Sherlock suggested mischievously.

"Do you know what they did at the club tonight?"

"There's only so much I can deduce from the tired look in your eyes."

"Well, I'll tell you then," Rose began, shifting her body away from Sherlock as she sat up taller. "Sasha walked around with a basket of single red roses, offering them to the clientele to purchase. If they bought one and then gave the rose to one of our girls, they'd receive a kiss in return. The girls then went out the back, popped their roses back into Sasha's basket, and she'd sell them again. Can you believe that?"

"Yes," Sherlock replied, furrowing his brow at the nonsensical sequence of events—what morons did for entertainment. "Yes, I can."

"But what really annoyed me, were the girls who kept coming up to me all night, pitying me for not receiving any roses. I mean, as if I'd want one under those circumstances—receiving a rose from a drunken stranger who wants you to kiss him with his alcoholic breath, while he grabs your arse. No, thanks. I don't even like getting flowers from anyone on Valentine's Day. It all seems so contrived."

Sherlock studied Rose's face a moment while he digested the words of her mini rant. He cleared his throat, and said, "Then you may not want to look on your side of the bed."

It took a moment before Sherlock's words sunk in, and he continued to watch Rose out of interest for a hint of a reaction.

"Sherlock!" she eventually gasped, then she hastily left the couch.

"I said you may _not_ want to look," Sherlock called out to Rose's swiftly retreating form, before he too, stood and followed her to the bedroom.

Rose had rounded the king-sized canopy bed to find a single red rose lying on one pillow. Sherlock stopped in the doorway, his hands thrust comfortably in his trouser pockets as he looked on in amusement.

Rose gently picked up the flower by the stem, and turned to Sherlock, her eyes glistening with affection.

"Just another one of those social custom things," Sherlock began, "that I thought you celebrated, along with Christmas, New Year's and birthdays. My apologies if I've contributed to the capitalist ideologies of the day."

Sherlock could see Rose struggling to remain composed before she rushed at him. Throwing her arms around his neck, she gushed, "But it means so much more coming from you."

She held him tightly, her arms firmly clamped around his neck. Sherlock brought his hands out from his pockets and returned her embrace.

"Thank you," she whispered after she drew back.

"Now please don't return it to the florist," Sherlock quipped. "I won't be buying you another. Do you know how inflated the price of roses becomes on Val—"

Rose swiftly shushed the Consulting Detective by capturing his lips in hers. Sherlock enthusiastically returned the sentiment, having missed Rose's company for the few days he'd spent out of London. Then an idea came to the forefront of his mind—one more silly tradition in a day of pointless customs it seemed. He eased out of their kiss long enough to awkwardly ask, "Will you be my... Valentine?" When Rose's face brightened in amusement, he quickly added, "That's what they say, don't they?"

Rose laughed lightly at Sherlock's moment of ignorance, then responded, "Yes. Yes, they do." When he appeared relieved, she answered, "And yes, I will."

She was just about to narrow the gap between them once more, when Sherlock's eyes widened in shock.

"What's wrong?"

"Rose, I have no idea what I've just committed to."

Rose couldn't help but laugh at the poor man, which did little to ease Sherlock's fear and anxiety. She lightly tossed the rose onto the end of the bed, then grasped Sherlock by the hand. Pulling him toward the door, she said, "All you've committed to is a long, hot soak in the tub with me."

* * *

Sherlock rolled his eyes skyward as John repeated his fiancée's words to the detective.

"Under no circumstances. They're strictly off limits."

The Consulting Detective regarded his list of wedding guests once more. Only a handful of names were left for him to investigate, three of which were Mary's bridesmaids. The bride-to-be had issued a directive that Sherlock was not allowed to peek into the lives of her girlfriends.

"Mary's pretty cluey when it comes to people. She's quite intuitive." When Sherlock tutted, John added, "Don't forget, she liked you the minute you rose from the dead."

"What's not to like?"

Ignoring Sherlock's quip, John remarked, "So we don't believe any of the bridesmaids are plotting to murder me."

"And why not?" Sherlock challenged. "We still haven't uncovered the identity nor motive of the person or persons responsible for testing your combustive qualities on Guy Fawkes Night."

"Pretty sure Mary's girlfriends didn't have anything to do with it."

Sherlock sighed and ran his eyes down the list once more. "That just leaves the other wedding attendants." He frowned, then narrowed his eyes at one name in particular. "This one doesn't seem to have any qualifications. In fact, he didn't even complete his primary education. That immediately rings alarm bells."

"Are you talking about Archie? Because he's eight years old."

"Oh."

"He's the page boy, and he'll be holding the rings. Anything else... ring alarm bells?" John queried, stifling a laugh.

Sherlock tossed the list onto the table. "David  _someone_ ," he said, waving a hand dismissively at the discarded list. "What's his relationship with Mary?"

John shrugged nonchalantly. "Just a... friend. He's fine. He's good. Mary would like him to be an usher."

"Just a...  _friend_?" Sherlock repeated, emphasising the pause in John's statement.

"Yeah. So.. tea? Did you put the kettle on earlier?"

John strode into the kitchen while Sherlock sat down at his computer, muttering to himself, "A  _fine, good_   _friend_ can only mean _ex-boyfriend_. And jealousy is a curse for the weak-minded and a perfect motive for murder."

Sherlock tapped away at his keyboard while John kept busy in the kitchen. To Sherlock, it felt much like old times, and he preceded to ignore John as much as he ever did. That is, until John said something worth listening to.

"So Mary suggested I check with you if you wanted to invite anybody... you know, to be your guest."

The rapid typing stopped as Sherlock tried to analyse the motive behind Mary's suggestion. Did John's fiancée suspect that Rose was more than just Sherlock's therapist? What then? A friend? Lover?

_Girlfriend?_

Naturally, John Watson misinterpreted his friend's musings.

"Of course, Mrs Hudson and Molly already have their own invitations," he added. "But, if there was someone else you wanted to invite?"

Sherlock immediately took offence at John's assumption that there was nobody else in the detective's life other than his landlady and his pathologist.

"Yes, I think I may," he replied, almost coldly. He resumed his efforts on the computer again by clicking the mouse button rather irritably.

"Really?" John responded. Then the doctor cleared his throat and attempted to take the incredulity out of his voice. "I mean, that's great. Good."

"I may even surprise you."

"Yeah, yeah, I think you may."

There was an uneasy silence that John attempted to fill by seating himself noisily into his old armchair and rustling a newspaper as he searched for an interesting article to read. Sherlock brooded as he continued to research Mary's ex-boyfriend's online presence.

He was in two minds about mentioning Rose to John. Of course the doctor would remember her as Shelley, the university student. Sherlock supposed that the last time John had encountered her was when she'd come around to Baker Street to offer her condolences, and had then subsequently stolen the cushion from John's chair.

If he told John about Rose, would he also offer the information that she was one of the privileged few who knew about his fake suicide? Would he ever tell John the truth about initially meeting Rose in a brothel? There was the truth, and then there was the whole story. Sherlock knew that revealing either or any of it would hurt the people he cared about. He would have to keep up the pretence then, and he was rather skilful at that.

Speaking of Rose, and all the joy she currently brought him, Sherlock was looking forward to tonight. Rose had decided on a new routine, one which would bring her back to Baker Street at least once per week. Sundays were her day off, and she had decided to give away her Sunday evening shift at the strip club. This would allow her to come to Sherlock's flat after her Saturday night shift, under the cover of darkness, spend all day Sunday—hiding out in Sherlock's bedroom, if she needed to—then leaving in the early hours of Monday morning, as discreetly as she had arrived.

Rose also changed her method of working at the call centre. She had asked Tracey Yale, her supervisor at the crisis centre, if she could be authorised to provide counselling via email, as it was an option offered by the centre to those who felt too exposed speaking about their issues by phone. Rose was granted access, which meant she could work from home, negating the need to commute, and therefore she could spend more evenings in Sherlock's company.

Sherlock and Rose had already spent a couple of Sundays in and out of bed in Baker Street, with Sherlock deciding that Rose's days off should commence with long, hot soaks in his bathtub. Obviously it wasn't as spacious as the Grand Master Suite's corner bath at the Pietra Miliare, but Sherlock had concluded after their Valentine's Day session, that sex in the bath didn't quite meet his expectations and wasn't worth a second attempt.

"I don't mind using the bath during foreplay," he'd told Rose afterwards, "but the water tends to dilute the natural lubrication created when—"

Rose hadn't allowed Sherlock to continue with his detailed critique, and when he rated sex in the bath a possible six out of ten, with sex in the shower being an eight, and their regular sex—these days without the use of a condom—having a rating of nine, Rose also forbade him ever telling her his ratings again. She did, however, silently wonder what rated a ten on Sherlock's scale. She suspected it may have been sex against her kitchen wall, but he was too embarrassed to admit it.

Since it was the beginning of March, Rose had reminded Sherlock that he ought to begin working on his wedding speech, and she'd offered to help him that Sunday after he'd looked suitably horrified at the prospect. He also had a couple more serviette designs to show Rose; they had been road-testing options for the wedding. He wouldn't show John and Mary until they had narrowed the selection, or at least until  _Sherlock_  had narrowed the selection as Rose was particularly hopeless at origami and kept insisting that a valley fold was exactly the same as a mountain fold if you turned one upside-down.

After John had departed for home in the early evening, with the Consulting Detective declining an invitation to tea, Sherlock set about gathering up his supplies that consisted of two packets of paper serviettes, and one box of linen napkins, along with several books on origami. He relocated them to his bedroom for a fun session of serviette folding with Rose the next day. He also cleaned his bathtub, and stole down to Mrs Hudson's bathroom to "borrow" a jar of bath salts. While he was downstairs, he acquired a few other items that he deemed appropriate.

With his Saturday night preparation for Rose complete, he then dressed and left his flat to spend a few hours at Bart's morgue, where Molly had acquired the body of a man who had been burnt to a crisp in an horrific car crash. Sherlock had become intrigued by the information one could glean from such a corpse since his return from Cambridgeshire and the case of the incinerated pensioner, and had requested that Molly let him know the next time such a specimen crossed her desk, so to speak. He had six hours to kill before Rose was due at his flat anyway.

* * *

Rose was glad she had been able to finish her shift at Roches by the early afternoon, as it gave her time to swing by a bookstore to pick up a little something for Sherlock. She also had time to go home and refresh herself before her shift at the Rendezvous that evening. Unfortunately, it also meant that she could keep to her promise of having afternoon tea upstairs with Tonya Small.

Rose had tried to keep her interactions with the Clarence House Cannibal to a minimum, particularly since the woman kept bringing up, at every opportunity, the philosophies of the ASXX—the Anti-SeXXploitation Project. Their tea session this afternoon was no exception. Instead of honing in on Rose's relationship with Sherlock, or  _sexploitation_  as Ms Small labelled it, the older woman began campaigning for Rose to leave her job at the strip club, since it was a business that was furthering men's longstanding acts of violence against women.

Rose found it far easier to issue vague noises in agreement, rather than try to defend her occupation, and she was rather grateful—but felt slightly guilty about the fact—when Ms Small abruptly pushed her chair backwards, catching one of her  _darlings'_  paws underneath the chair leg. The ensuing yelping of the canine, and cooing of Tonya Small gave Rose the perfect opportunity to make her excuses and leave. After several air kisses and promises to return another time, Rose was able to escape.

She had just enough time to pack an overnight bag for her stay at Sherlock's, which she took with her to work at the club that night. Her shift appeared to drag, especially as Rose eyed each of the clientele critically, for signs of being a fierce advocate for the continued abuse of women.

She was glad she had decided to make some simple adjustments to her life to be more accommodating to Sherlock, especially after his latest effort in an ever growing list of romantic gestures.

After her shift ended at midnight, she obtained a lift, as per her usual routine, asking this time, to be dropped off at Baker Street, instead of travelling all the way to Bayswater.

Sherlock had arrived home only half an hour earlier, and he had already built the fire, showered and donned his pyjamas and dressing gown. He was just putting the kettle on when Rose entered. Sherlock turned around and leant his back against the kitchen bench as Rose dropped her bag on the ground and approached him for her hello hug and kiss.

As they drew apart, Sherlock said, "Perfect timing. I think the bath is just about full."

"Oh, you're too much," Rose said, feigning irritation. She fixed Sherlock with another quick kiss on his lips, and then left him standing in the kitchen while she retrieved her bag and headed to the passageway through the kitchen. She called back, "I think I'm going to keep you."

A warm smile graced Sherlock's lips, as he turned back to finish making the tea.  _Just wait til she sees the—_

"Oh, Sherlock!" came a happy cry from the bathroom.

— _candles._

As Sherlock slowly dunked the teabags into the mugs, he reflected on how easy it was to keep one's partner happy with small gestures and only the tiniest amount of preparation. How could anyone get this relationship stuff wrong? The detective had reasoned that keeping Rose happy and content whenever she came to Baker Street would only make her want to spend more time there.

He set his tea onto the kitchen table beside his laptop then carried Rose's mug of tea toward his bedroom. Crossing the room, Sherlock grabbed the chair that sat in one corner and took it into the bathroom. The tiny room was aglow with the dozen candles he had acquired from around Mrs Hudson's flat.

"You are so romantic," Rose said, looking up as he placed the chair beside the bathtub. He then set the mug onto the makeshift table. She gestured to the candles, half a dozen of which sat perched beside the sink, with another group arranged at one end of the tub. "This is much more relaxing than the bath at the hotel."

"I thought you may be settling in for the night, so I assumed you'd want to take your tea in here as well."

Rose smiled sheepishly. "Is that all right? I'll try not to be long."

"No, no, take your time. I have work to do."

Sherlock leant over Rose, stooping low so he could plant a kiss on her forehead. Rose lifted her face to him, and Sherlock improved on his first kiss by planting the second on her lips.

"Are you sure you won't come in?" she asked.

Sherlock straightened up and grimaced. "Bit harsh on the knees," he volunteered, then made moves for the door.

"I thought it was because of the lubrication, or lack there-of."

"That, too," Sherlock answered. "In fact, I'm composing a list of reasons why we shouldn't have sex in the bathtub."

"You know, I think I'll take back what I said about you being romantic. Your five stars have been reduced to four."

Sherlock's eyes twinkled at Rose's mock chastisement. He was just about through the door when Rose called out, "Oh, I've bought you a book. It's just in the top of my bag."

Sherlock frowned in anticipation of Rose's choice of book. He opened her bag that she had placed on the bed and drew out a thin, plain hardback.

" _How to Write an Unforgettable Best Man Speech_ ," he read from the lacklustre cover.

"Should help you make a start," Rose responded, a touch of mischief in her tone.

Sherlock deposited the book onto his bedside table, and drifted back out into the kitchen without saying a word. He'd deal with that pointless exercise later, much later—perhaps on the night before the wedding.

When Rose finally convinced herself that the bath water was indeed becoming colder and her skin was completely wrinkled, she reluctantly left the tub, dried herself and dressed lightly in nothing more than a robe she'd brought with her.

She found Sherlock at his kitchen table peering intently at an image on his computer screen, before turning his attention to a photograph he held in his hand.

"Still busy?" Rose asked as she approached the detective with her empty tea mug in her hand.

"Single vehicle collision," Sherlock murmured, his eyes fixed on the image. "The car exploded and was engulfed in flames. Initial pathology tests reveal that the driver had already expired before being consumed by the fire, but not as a result of the car accident. In fact, the vehicle collided with the concrete pillar  _because_  he had already died behind the wheel."

He lay the photograph onto the table, and Rose glanced at the blackened image. She tore her eyes away and busied herself taking both their empty mugs to the kitchen sink.

"No soot present in the deceased's airways," Sherlock volunteered by way of an explanation.

"Oh," Rose replied, rinsing one mug under running water.

"But how did you die?" he muttered to his screen.

"Don't the police have forensic people to figure that out?" she asked.

"Yes, they do, and yes she has."

"She?" Rose queried.

"Molly Hooper," Sherlock sighed, shuffling to the next photo. "She's challenged me to find the cause of death, and told me that the evidence is here in these photographs. She knows I like to keep my mind occupied when I don't have a case to work on."

"Oh," Rose commented feebly, wiping her hands on the back of her dressing gown. She knew she'd heard the name Molly Hooper somewhere, but just couldn't place it.  _So Sherlock has friends who know he likes to be challenged intellectually_ , she thought. She reflected on the night before Sherlock had left for Cambridgeshire, when he had ranted about Rose being too tired all the time, and not making the effort to stimulate his mind, only his libido.  _He did tip me for my conversation,_  she thought darkly in regard to the early days of their acquaintance.

Rose once again vowed to make an effort for Sherlock—to engage in lively conversations—except for tonight; she was far too tired to probe him about this topic, and the subject matter appeared particularly gruesome anyway.

Rose came up behind Sherlock, and gently placing her hands on his shoulders, she leant forward and kissed his cheek.

"Goodnight," she whispered, not wanting to interrupt his train of thought.

"You're going to bed already?" he asked, managing to tear his eyes away from his screen.

"It's almost 2am."

"Is it?"

Sherlock glanced at his watch, his brow furrowed at the fact that time had escaped him yet again.

"But you keep working if you're in the middle of something," Rose said encouragingly. "We have all day tomorrow."

Sherlock's expression brightened, and he rose from his chair.

"Yes, we do, don't we?" he responded, wrapping his arms around Rose. So many things to look forward to, he thought—a puzzle spread out before him, and a Rose to curl up next to once his mind had closed down for the day. He really was a very lucky man.

He dipped his head for the lightest and briefest of kisses, but Rose huffed a laugh against his lips and drew him in tightly.

As his mouth covered hers once more, Sherlock ran one hand along Rose's spine, while his other hand caressed her arm with light fingertips, firstly downwards, and then gliding back up, finding room between her arm and the wide sleeve of the dressing gown. Her skin felt soft and silky as a result of a good soak in his bath full of salts—an unblemished, smooth expanse of skin...

"Oh!" Sherlock exclaimed, suddenly pulling Rose away from him. "Ante-mortem lacerations," he declared, with wide-eyes focussed on some point behind Rose.

He returned his gaze to the woman who had remained loosely in his embrace and who regarded him in some amusement. Sherlock cupped her face in his hands, and said, "Rose, you're a genius!" He kissed her briefly on the lips then released her.

Turning back to his work, Sherlock searched through the photos scattered around the table, muttering, "Lacerations are detectable because they are more than likely angled perpendicularly to the muscle fibre, whereas skin and muscle splits caused by fire damage..." he straightened up and reached for Rose's arm. Running his fingertips along the length of her arm as he had done moments earlier, he continued. "They run along the plane of the muscle. I'm looking for a sharp force injury. He'd been stabbed, Rose!"

Sherlock directed his attention to the table of images once more. Rose laughed to herself. She'd stimulated his mind after all, although in a somewhat roundabout fashion. She gently squeezed Sherlock's arm and whispered, "'Night, Sherlock," before quietly retreating to his bedroom.

* * *

Sherlock slept on, his naked form curled around Rose's. The amount of diffused light in his bedroom indicated to Rose that they'd slept longer than usual. She would've like to have snuggled into him until he woke naturally, but the bathroom beckoned. She quietly slipped from Sherlock's embrace and visited the ensuite. When she returned, she found that Sherlock hadn't stirred at all. Checking Sherlock's phone that he had left on his bedside table in the early hours, she found it was a little after nine. She knew Sherlock had come to bed at around five in the morning, because he had loudly declared it as such at the time. Granted, he wasn't making that remark to her, but to the person on the other end of the phone, who he had presumably woken at that ungodly hour as well.

"What do you mean 'at this hour'?" he'd asked the other party. "Why weren't you already awake? It's almost five o'clock. Well, anyway, I worked it out. He had been stabbed and he was trying to  _drive himself to the hospital_  when he was overcome by his injuries. Hello? Molly?" The pathologist had obviously ended the call on him.

"Sorry, Rose," Sherlock had apologised, when his sleepy, irritable-looking companion lifted her head from the pillow.

Sherlock had swiftly discarded his pyjamas, then slipped into bed naked.

"No sex," he had said to Rose's almost slumbering form. "I'm far too tired for your shenanigans," he joked to his unappreciative audience. He wrapped himself around Rose and in one deep exhale, he too was fast asleep.

Rose decided she'd had enough sleep for the time being. She could always have an afternoon nap if she spent a good part of midday romping with Sherlock, if the last two Sundays were anything to go by. So she left the sleeping detective and made her way to the kitchen after wrapping herself in her dressing gown. She would make him tea and then wake him by showering him with soft kisses a little later.

With the kettle on, and two tea mugs set out with their respective teabags sitting in them, patiently waiting for their hot bath, Rose drifted to the living room where she placed a couple more logs into the coals that were still aglow. When the kettle clicked off, she made her way back to the kitchen, and was startled to see Sherlock's ghost standing in the passageway beside the fridge, staring unemotionally at her.

"Why didn't you wake me?" it said, before turning around and drifting along the passageway to the bathroom.

"Why are you walking around wrapped in your bedsheet?" Rose laughed, following him to the back of the flat, where he had left the bathroom door ajar.

"It's cold," Sherlock called back.

When Rose heard the unmistakeable sound of toilet usage, she pulled up a metre short of the open door.

"I thought you'd want to sleep in," she said to him through the wall. "I'm making you tea anyway," she added, before turning back to the kitchen.

"My phone woke me with a text alert," he called back.

Rose heard continued murmuring, so after pouring hot water into the mugs, she left them on the bench to steep and walked back to the bathroom to find out what he was saying.

"Christ!" she heard Sherlock exclaim just before she reached the door.

Hurrying a little, she rounded the doorway into the ensuite to find Sherlock lying down in the bathtub, fully underwater, except for his legs, which were bent at the knees allowing his upper half to be completely submerged.

"Sherlock!"

Rose presumed he was re-using the water she'd neglected to drain in the early hours of the morning—the water which had been left to go completely cold overnight.

With a sudden gasp for air and a dramatic splash of water, Sherlock resurfaced then immediately stood up. Water cascaded from him and journeyed southward along his lithe, pale skin in multiple rivulets. He shook out his hair and declared, his chest heaving, "I'm awake now. Towel?"

He held out a hand as Rose reached behind the door for a towel.

"What's this all about? Is this how you wake up of a morning?"

Sherlock stepped out of the tub when Rose made room for him.

"No, I'm late for an appointment," he replied, busily drying himself with the towel. "I forgot about it. Sorry, Rose."

He brushed past her, and entered his bedroom through the alternate doorway.

"What appointment?" she asked, following him into his room.

"Cake," he sighed. Sherlock dropped his towel onto the floor and crossed the room to his dresser. "I promised Mary I'd meet her at a cake shop in the Strand this morning. They'll have a few samples of wedding cake for us to try." He rummaged in his top drawer for a pair of boxers, then drew them on as he continued talking to Rose. "John's next to useless, so she can't take him. It completely slipped my mind until she sent me a reminder text."

"Oh. Okay. Did you still want your tea?" Rose asked, indicating the kitchen.

"Ah... better make it coffee. I need something stronger than tea." He suddenly flashed Rose a wide smile. "You don't mind do you? I know it's our special day together, but I shouldn't be long. How long does it take to nibble three pieces of fruit cake? Oh! Why don't you come with us?"

Rose's eyes widened minutely at the notion. "Me?"

"Yes, you. You've already met Mary, and she seems to like you. You both can have a natter about... oh, I don't know. What do you have in common?"

"You?" Rose replied, feeling unimpressed with his attempt at convincing her so far.

"Why not," Sherlock replied distractedly. He reached into his wardrobe and drew out a crisp white shirt from its hanger. As he slipped his arms into the sleeves, he turned to Rose and quipped, "You can regale each other with  _How Wonderful Sherlock Is_  stories."

"Nice try," Rose deadpanned. "But I don't think so. I'll go make your coffee."

Rose swiftly exited Sherlock's room before he tried to persuade her further. She discarded the teabag from his cup, then poured the black tea down the sink. After she'd prepared a second cup, this time a black coffee with two sugars, she left it on the bench and took her own tea, making herself comfortable in John Watson's old armchair, propping up the new Union Jack cushion behind her back. Tucking her legs underneath her, she sipped her tea, taking in the warmth of the fire.

Her quiet solitude didn't last long when the whirlwind that was Sherlock Holmes swept into the kitchen. He made light work of his coffee then strode past Rose into the living room.

"Perhaps you can try out some more serviette designs while I'm out," he suggested to Rose as he grabbed his Belstaff from the back of the living room door.

"I'm really not very good at following those instructions," Rose replied.

"Find some on YouTube then. You're obviously a visual learner."

Sherlock found his scarf atop a pile of magazines, and slowly wound it around his neck, while Rose stared absently into the fire. Sherlock patted his coat pockets, then drew a black leather glove out of each. As he slid one on, he remarked, "Oh, John's fine with me bringing you to the wedding."

Rose had lifted her mug to her lips, and paused before taking a sip. The whole world appeared to stop for her at this moment in time. "He what?" she asked tentatively, turning her head to Sherlock.

Unaware of Rose's inner turmoil, Sherlock's face had brightened. "He said I could bring a guest." He then reached into his jacket pocket and frowned. "Phone," he murmured to himself before concluding that it was still in his bedroom. "So that's settled it then!" he said, addressing Rose before striding determinedly toward his room.

Rose's heart stuttered, and she forced her body to meet her demands. Putting her tea down onto a side table, she rose from the armchair as Sherlock rushed back through the kitchen towards her, his phone in hand. He tapped at the keypad, muttering to himself, "Better text Mary," as he strode past Rose.

"Sherlock," she said.

Sherlock stopped in the middle of the living room. "Just - leaving - now," he said slowly, as he typed the words into the phone. With a satisfied grin, he dropped his phone into his coat pocket, then started putting on his second glove.

"Did you tell him you were bringing me, specifically?" Rose asked.

"Ah... no. But what does it matter? Imagine the look on his face when he sees you," Sherlock said pleasantly.

 _Yes, imagine it_ , Rose thought in horror.

Sherlock opened his coat to pat the breast pocket of his jacket, resulting in a furrowed brow. " _Now_  where's my phone?"

"I don't want to go to the wedding," Rose gushed, before Sherlock could go off on a tangent again.

"Don't worry about it, Rose. You'll be fine," Sherlock said encouragingly. He reached into his coat pocket, and his face lit up once more. "Ah," he remarked upon finding the phone nestled inside. He drew it out, then relocated it into his jacket's internal breast pocket. "You already know Mrs Hudson, and Mary, and John, of course. Lestrade's a bit odd, especially when he's had a few, and I don't think Mike Stamford can make it, so you'll be safe there."

"I don't want to go, Sherlock.  _Listen to me._ "

Sherlock had opened his mouth to continue verbalising his train of thought on all of the guests who would be compatible with Rose as dinner companions, when her forceful tone threw him.

"What's wrong?" he asked, his gaze a little more attentive this time.

Rose felt her skin prickling and pressure building on her tear ducts. She wasn't ready for this conversation, but she couldn't see any way around it. As it had to be dealt with eventually, it may as well be now.

"I don't... want to go," she forced herself to say once more, struggling to keep her voice even, "… to  _John Watson's_  wedding."

She blinked, and a solitary tear escaped, which she hastily brushed away. She could no longer maintain eye contact with Sherlock and she turned from him.

Sherlock stood very still, all synapses firing now that he had received a hit of caffeine. Inability to make eye contact, or stand her ground. A silly emotional response to a name... a name from the past. A reluctance to visit Sherlock when John was here.

A wave of disappointment crested and broke along the shores of his heart. This was one deduction he didn't want to make, and his shoulders drooped with the burden.

Sherlock's voice held no emotion when he said simply, "You had sex with John Watson."


	33. You Let Me Grieve

Rose's breath caught at Sherlock's statement. He was so close to the truth, and she could almost see the hurt reflected in his eyes as they widened by degree because she had remained silent for the moment. The corners of his mouth had curved downwards, but he still maintained a steady gaze fixed on Rose.

"No," she said almost inaudibly, her voice straining under pressure. "No, I didn't," she repeated a little louder, her second attempt gaining in confidence.

"But..." Sherlock began, his brow drawn down in confusion. He was still dwelling on all of the signs that lead to him deducing that Rose once had sex with John Watson.

Rose couldn't move toward him because her guilt had paralysed her. "Let me just explain a few things."

The room immediately felt stifling to Sherlock, and he gently tugged at his scarf to loosen it.

"You were dead," Rose began, "and we were in mourning."

Sherlock thought that this statement was a horrible precursor to delivering devastating news about having it off with your lover's best friend. He loosened his scarf some more, then irritably drew it over his head, thinking to remove any restriction to his airways, for he was finding it harder and harder to breathe.

"So we got drunk," she continued.

 _Then had sex_ , Sherlock's dark thoughts added, despite Rose's initial words to the contrary. He looked away from her, tossing his scarf lightly onto the living room table.

"We had a few laughs at your expense," Rose said, nervously attempting a smile, when Sherlock glanced back at her.

_And then you had sex._

"And toasted you. And for some reason we did snog a bit."

Sherlock's gaze dropped to the floor. He didn't understand this behaviour. He knew people indulged in it—making out when inebriated—but for reasons he couldn't determine, he had elevated Rose above all that. The air still felt oppressive and he sought to remove his gloves as well.

Perhaps she did it because, at that time, she saw John as her next meal ticket, he thought. Maybe she was thinking of staying in the game after all, having given away her psychology internship.

Rose drew in a deep breath, then exhaled slowly. "But we didn't—"

"At what point did you negotiate a price?" Sherlock asked, interrupting her, his voice low and rough.

Disappointment and hurt flickered across Rose's face and Sherlock immediately regretted voicing his dark thoughts.

But Rose's face hardened by degree and she lift her chin in defiance. "As I recall," she started, her voice steady and devoid of emotion, "I wasn't working as a common whore that night. You may have your nights and Johns mixed up. It was the previous week that had me dressing up as a school girl and fucking John Garvie for £500."

Rose turned toward the window and slowly moved toward it, folding her arms in front of her.

 _Idiot_ , thought Sherlock, silently chastising himself. _She's already upset. Why am I making her feel worse?_ Sherlock sighed and said quietly, "Sorry."

Rose paused in her narrative while she reflected on that week's turn of events—leaving Cardiff to come back to London, having no money and deciding to contact the perverted Member of Parliament for a well-paid night of debauchery, wanting to pay her respects to John Watson, but having to avoid the crowd of press and fans outside the flat in Baker Street. It seemed a lifetime ago, but the emotions she felt at the time of Sherlock's supposed suicide still resonated through her.

Eventually she said, "When people suffer a loss such as this, they sometimes look for comfort or seek solace in the unlikeliest of places."

"I really don't need to hear the psycho-babble."

Rose turned to Sherlock in irritation. "Well, perhaps I need to say it!"

Their eyes met and locked before Sherlock huffed and turned away. He ran a hand through his hair, wishing Rose would just drop the subject now. He was conflicted between letting her voice her concerns and therefore supporting her in her turmoil, or shushing her so that he didn't have to hear anything that could possibly upset him.

"I think we both needed to be in the company of somebody else who knew you. It was comforting not being alone. Anyway, we ended up in John's room upstairs," she continued.

"You ended up?" Sherlock repeated in distaste. "So where did you start?"

Rose indicated the couch with a nod of her head.

Sherlock regarded the piece of furniture and wondered what the room would look like if he had the thing removed and burnt. But then he remembered lying idly on it one day, waiting to hear the verdict of the Moriarty case, and Rose had visited him, giving him a free blow job in her bid to apologise and win back his custom or something. There was a lot of history in that couch, it seemed.

"But when I came back downstairs to get my bag—"

"Your bag? For what—a condom?"

When Rose nodded, Sherlock silently kicked himself for interrupting her with his questions. It was a bad habit used to prevent clients from waffling. In hindsight, he knew he'd be better off not knowing all of the details in this particular story.

"But I decided that I couldn't go through with it," Rose continued, her voice breaking a little. "I sat down halfway up the stairs and cried."

Rose gazed past Sherlock to the stairwell, her eyes glistening, while Sherlock exercised a short vow of silence.

She had told Sherlock's ghost that she loved him, but did she really at the time? What did she know of him then? What had he done to deserve her love? There was no doubt in her mind her feelings for him now; he wasn't the same man he had been two years ago, or at least nowadays he saw and treated her differently.

Guilt and regret coursed through Sherlock's veins once more. He hadn't let her know he was alive soon enough. Because of his death, she came back to London, and thought her only option to get by was to fuck that sick pervert, then still found the decency to seek out the only other person she knew who would be affected by his suicide.

Rose pushed her thoughts to the back of her mind, and continued her recount. "When I went back up to tell John, I discovered that he'd passed out anyway."

Sherlock blinked rapidly at Rose's last few words in order to reset his curious mind. "Sorry, what?"

"John had passed out on his bed."

Sherlock arched an eyebrow, and queried, "Naked?"

"No."

Sherlock turned from Rose, for he felt an inappropriate response bubbling up inside him.

Perplexed, Rose regarded Sherlock's reaction. His back was to her, but his head was bowed and his shoulders shook lightly. When he emitted a tiny snort and turned back to face her, she realised he was quietly laughing.

"What?" she asked, wide-eyed in bewilderment.

Sherlock continued to shake with laughter, his eyes glistening with mirth. Rose failed to see what was so humorous. Eventually the hilarity was reduced to the odd chuckle, and Sherlock wiped tiny tears of laughter from his eyes.

"I'm sorry," he said, straightening up, and forcing a solemn expression to his face. It quickly split into a broad grin again. "No," he said, as if to chastise himself, and he immediately masked his emotions once more. "Entirely not appropriate," he began, "but in my defence, I have known John for a lot longer, and have been a witness to many an occasion where he would go on dates and come home completely dejected. To hear an encounter where he managed to get a woman into his bedroom for the purposes of sex, and then subsequently passed out, well, that's just..." His mouth quirked into a smile again and the corners of his eyes crinkled. "It's hilarious, that's all." Sherlock strived to compose himself once more when Rose raised her eyebrows at him. "But now I can see," he continued, "how it would be a little bit embarrassing for you to show up to the wedding when you and the groom both had a drunken snog. Bit awkward. So you're off the hook. Okay?"

Sherlock studied Rose's face, and became slightly uncomfortable when an expression of relief failed to materialise on it.

"That's not all," she said, and Sherlock's heart sank just a little. "I crashed here because I was too drunk and tired to go home. It was a bit awkward in the morning, like you said. In fact, I'm not sure how much of the night before John even remembered, but I did reassure him that nothing happened."

Sherlock clenched and unclenched his fist, the only outward sign that he was getting worried about the rest of Rose's story. _But they didn't have sex_ , he reminded himself, _so why is she_ still _upset?_

"John was preoccupied with getting ready for your funeral service. I didn't go, by the way," Rose hurriedly added. "I can't do funerals."

"I know. I was there," Sherlock said blandly.

Rose drew in another steadying breath before she was able to continue. "I said something stupid, in hindsight, but at the time I was going through my own grieving process, I guess." Rose paused and ran her fingers through her hair.

 _Moving right along,_ Sherlock thought in agitation, _to the part where you cleave my heart in two._

"The night before, John and I had a discussion about how much we really knew you, about why we had no inkling that you were going to take your own life. And the next morning, I thought, quite ignorantly I suppose, that I should tell John your most darkest secret."

"Which is what?" Sherlock asked, rather curiously.

Rose hesitated, taken aback by Sherlock's quizzical expression. "That I was a prostitute," she said carefully, "and you had been paying me to have sex with you."

Rose was surprised to see, again, Sherlock's face brighten into a smile.

"Sherlock!"

He began chuckling and turned from her once more, dipping his head, and shaking with laughter.

"Sherlock! It's not funny!"

Rose crossed her arms, and stared, unimpressed, at the Consulting Detective who made no effort to recompose himself this time.

"Sherlock!"

"Sorry, Rose," he managed to say in between chuckles. He straightened up and moved in front of her. Placing his hands on Rose's arms, he said, "This is an entirely serious matter, and I shouldn't be visualising the look on John's face when you told him that information."

"He was angry," Rose retorted. "He was just about to go to your funeral."

"Yes," Sherlock said, trying to maintain a cool visage. "And you were trying to sully my good name. Shame on you." When Rose continued to glare at him, Sherlock dropped his hands and added, in an obviously fake show of sincerity, "I fully understand why you wouldn't want to come to the wedding now."

"You do?" Rose challenged, arching an eyebrow at him.

"Yes. Because John will think I paid a prostitute to be my guest at his wedding. Entirely inappropriate."

"Yes," Rose responded, continuing to scowl at the detective who clearly still showed that he found the whole thing amusing.

"Although, that would also be funny."

"Sherlock!"

"Or not. Definitely not funny."

Again his words were at odds with his expression when his mouth curved into a smile. Sherlock felt an enormous weight lift from his shoulders. Rose and John had never had sex, and Rose's additional concerns were nothing really, he concluded. This was John Watson she was talking about.

"You know what I could do, though," he suggested to Rose, gently pulling her into his arms.

Her entire composure seemed to relax when she was caught in his embrace. "What?" she asked, gazing up into his warm eyes and bringing her hands to rest lightly on his chest.

"I could tell John that you're no longer a sex worker."

Sherlock's expression seemed so hopeful that Rose dropped her gaze and didn't immediately give him an answer. She knew that he really wanted her to attend the wedding with him, despite his best friend knowing he was seeing an ex-prostitute. Of course, Sherlock had told her on a previous occasion that he would much rather people knew he had the need of a sex worker rather than the need of a therapist. Rose didn't want to disappoint him, but she was as reluctant to see John as she ever was.

She sighed. "I won't feel comfortable being around him when he knows who I really was."

Sherlock offered Rose another reassuring smile. "You know, John may have been angry with you at the time you told him, but that was because your timing was off. He's not going to harbour any resentment toward you now. I happen to know he's the kindest, most compassionate man on this planet. It's not in his DNA to make you feel uncomfortable."

Rose tried to return Sherlock's smile, but instead, she felt tears well in her eyes. "I can't go," she whispered. "I just can't."

Sherlock's face softened, and he pressed his forehead to Rose's. He hated for Rose to be upset a moment longer.

"That's fine," he reassured her, his voice pitched low. "I won't press you about it any more."

Rose sniffed back tears when Sherlock brushed his lips against her forehead.

"After the wedding, I'll bring you a piece of wedding cake," he said, "and a little bag of almond things with your name on it. Come to think of it, you can have mine, too. They taste quite disgusting."

Rose laughed lightly in response. "Speaking of wedding cake, you'd better go, or you'll be late."

"I'm already late," he murmured, his mouth hovering over hers. He kissed her lightly, then drew back to study her features once more. "It's a pity," he added, "I was looking forward to teaching you how to dance."

Rose slid her arms up to encircle Sherlock's neck, her eyes shining brightly.

"I'd love you to still teach me how to dance."

"Proper dancing," he said sternly. "Not that lambada rubbish you were probably hoping for. Although," he mused, his eyes twinkling with mischief, "I'm quite the expert in the forbidden dance as well."

"I'll look forward to that," Rose whispered, then she stole another kiss from the detective. His mouth was warm and soft, and Rose couldn't bear to pull away.

Sherlock held Rose tightly, savouring her taste for a moment before reluctantly drawing back. "I won't be long," he said, recognising only too well the stirring of desire deep within. He lessened his grip on Rose, before he got himself into trouble. He was keenly aware that they were yet to make love for the first time this weekend.

"Thank you for being so understanding," Rose whispered again, her arms still wrapped around his neck. When she felt herself about to lose control of her emotions again, she drew Sherlock in tightly, and was comforted when Sherlock returned her hug in equal measures.

Rose turned her head suddenly toward the door, when she detected movement out of the corner of her eye.

"Oh!" said a figure approaching the top of the stairs.

The woman suddenly spun around and rapidly descended, calling out, "I'll just wait downstairs. Don't mind me!"

Sherlock looked over toward the stairwell upon hearing the voice of the interloper.

"Was that..." he began.

"Mary," finished Rose.

They awkwardly disengaged, and Sherlock cleared his throat.

"Obviously I'm later than I thought," he said, and he looked around for his scarf.

"But... she saw us hugging," Rose stated, trying to keep her voice from rising in a panic.

"Don't worry about it," Sherlock said, a little distractedly. He found his scarf where he'd tossed it onto the table earlier. "I'm a hugging kind of person," he quipped, a tiny smile growing from one corner of his mouth.

"No you're not."

"Oh, relax, Rose," Sherlock said, winding his scarf around his neck. "It was Mary, not John."

"What does that mean?"

Sherlock paused, and looked off to the side, deep in thought.

"I've no idea," he concluded.

Rose folded her arms in front of her and brooded while Sherlock patted his pockets, then fished a glove out of each of them.

"She saw you hugging your therapist," Rose said. "Your therapist who's only wearing a dressing gown."

"Yes," Sherlock said forcefully, pulling on a glove. "And if she was here a few seconds earlier, she would've seen me _kissing_ my therapist."

"Sherlock, you're not helping."

"And a few seconds later," he continued, donning the second glove, "I may have been dancing the lambada with my therapist."

"You're not funny either."

Sherlock stepped closer to Rose, and gently reached for her again. His eyes glistening with sincerity, he said, "Don't you worry about a thing. I'll sort this out." He gave Rose a quick kiss on her cheek, then strode toward the landing. "Won't be long." He glanced back at Rose, and gave her a wink before rapidly descending the staircase, hoping she wasn't too concerned about Mary after what they'd just discussed in regard to John.

He heard Rose shut his living room door above him.

 _It's too bad the horse has well and truly bolted_ , he mused. _And now to deal with the horse._

He spied Mary at the end of the passageway, talking to an unseen Mrs Hudson through the doorway into the landlady's kitchen. The subject matter under discussion was almond icing and fruit cakes.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows at Mary when she turned to him, and as he strode toward the entranceway, he was relieved to hear her bid Mrs Hudson goodbye and follow along behind him. His long stride had him outside and to the kerb in seconds, and by the time his best friend's fiancée had joined him, he'd already hailed a cab.

"Don't want to take the tube?" Mary asked, as the taxi pulled up in front of them.

Sherlock opened the rear passenger door and ushered Mary in before him.

"Since when do I take the tube in favour of a cab?" he asked as he joined Mary in the back of the taxi. "And besides, this is a more appropriate mode of transport for private conversations."

Mary gave him a knowing smile while Sherlock ask the cabbie to take them to the Strand.

The Consulting Detective settled into the back of the seat, propping his elbow onto the armrest and distractedly rubbing his lower lip with his thumb. He stared out onto the street until Mary sighed loudly next to him.

"You're really not gonna say anything?" she asked, as Sherlock idly looked over to her.

Sherlock's expression remained impassive when he replied, "You're the one with the questions, Ms Morstan."

"You're the one who's been caught in a lie, Mr Holmes."

Sherlock fixed Mary with a challenging glare. "Which lie would that be?"

He wasn't going to make it easy for her, he decided. And Mary Morstan was a worthy opponent.

"It's not just your story I'm calling into question. There are also Rose's statements that I'm putting under scrutiny."

"Scrutinise away," Sherlock bid Mary amiably, gesturing with an open palm.

Mary narrowed her eyes at the detective as if giving some thought to the challenge he'd set. After a moment, she began, "When John and I started dating—"

"Good God!"

"What?"

"Are you travelling that far back in time, just to ask me a question?"

"Look, if you're not going to volunteer any information, I'll go back as far as I like."

Sherlock regarded the woman beside him. He suspected he was going to be made to feel guilty for faking his own death, yet again. And clearly nobody quite understood the enormous sacrifice he had made for these people. Everyone, that is, except Rose. He sighed deeply, but said nothing in response.

"When John and I started dating," Mary began again, "we spent a lot of time just talking."

"Good to hear," Sherlock remarked, with a tinge of sarcasm.

"Don't interrupt me."

Sherlock turned his attention to central London, as it flew past his window. It may have been Sunday, but the streets were still alive and vibrant, with the potential for serious crime to be committed on any corner.

"We'd talk about anything and everything," Mary continued. "He knows a lot, John does, about all sorts of things—"

"Fills his head with all kinds of trivia," Sherlock recited, without turning from the window.

"Sherlock Holmes."

"Sorry," Sherlock said, glancing at Mary and giving her a tiny smile in apology.

The detective looked out of the window once more, his eyes drawn to the city, but his mind was once again poised to hear Mary's take on things.

"But there was one subject that was strictly off limits," she said.

When Mary paused and looked at Sherlock expectantly, his attention was drawn back to her. Noticing her raised eyebrows, he asked, "Oh, am I supposed to contribute now?"

"If you like."

"Oh, okay. A Q&A session. I'm brilliant at those. Hmm, a subject that's off limits as far as John's concerned... Afghanistan?"

"No. He talked about that quite a bit. Never shut up about it in fact."

"Really?" asked Sherlock, surprised at this information. "Hmm." He furrowed his brow, and was lost in his own thoughts.

"You, Sherlock," Mary answered, after a fashion.

"What?"

"He couldn't talk about _you_. At least not initially. It took him ages to say anything about you or the time you lived in Baker Street together solving crimes. And when he finally did, he only spoke about the cases. Talking about Sherlock, his _best friend_ , as opposed to Sherlock Holmes the detective, came much, much later."

Sherlock breathed deeply and redirected his gaze out of the window as the cab stopped at a set of traffic lights.

"There was one interesting story he told me about," Mary said, breaking into Sherlock's thoughts once more—thoughts that almost strayed to deducing a middle-aged pedestrian who had stopped at the lights, and had swapped his tatty briefcase from one hand to the other.

"It wasn't a story about a case at all," Mary went on, "just somebody who had crossed your paths once or twice. A university student, John said. A psychology major. Pretty young thing, bright and friendly—a bit flirty though, he said, not that you noticed, or so he thought. She wanted to write about the mind of the criminal element, or something. Her name was Shelley, and she interviewed you both about your cases."

Sherlock endeavoured to give no outward sign of discomfort, despite the fact that he had stopped breathing the moment Mary had uttered the name 'Shelley.'"

"But the most interesting thing about Shelley, Sherlock, was when she visited John the day before your funeral service. She'd had a few, John said, and she told him that you'd paid her to have sex with you, and that her name was in fact Rose."

At Mary's linking of Shelley to Rose, and the mention of paid sex, Sherlock felt compelled to make eye contact again, however uncomfortable the subject matter made him feel. Now Mary was covering territory over which the detective felt fiercely protective.

"So when I meet a former psychology student, called Rose, in your flat, just after she's come out of your bedroom, I make certain connections. She was clearly lying about her reasons for being there, but I don't like to make assumptions about people. Now John didn't know whether she was just enamoured with you and may have made up the story about you having sex with her—kind of a wishful thinking thing, I mean you were dead, so you weren't around to dispute it—but if it's true, then I'm worried that it's happening again.

Sherlock clenched his jaw before asking, "What's happening again?"

"Sherlock," Mary began in a gentle voice, "Are you paying this young woman to have sex with you?"

Sherlock tore his gaze from Mary. Central London continued living and breathing through the passenger window, oblivious to Sherlock's inner turmoil. He and Rose had been over this topic several times before from many different angles. _Do you still think of me as a prostitute?_ Rose had asked him, her eyes glistening with tears. And he had made the mistake of paying her for those nights they had spent together when he had first arrived back in London. He hated for Rose to be upset over her past, and he wanted to help her come to terms with it, but he knew he hadn't been entirely innocent when it came to his involvement with the sex industry either. But they'd sorted out his misunderstanding, and their relationship had developed from then into a sort of... _something_. Sherlock was unsure what to call it, but it certainly wasn't what Mary was describing.

Hearing the words spoken by a third party put another perspective on the origins of their relationship though, and gave more fuel for the argument that there had been something really wrong with the arrangement he and Rose had once shared.

Sherlock avoided answering Mary's question directly, by making light of the topic. He turned back to her and remarked, "Good old John. Omitting the one fact that was actually relevant."

"What fact?"

"Did you tell John that you had met Rose the other week?" Sherlock asked, suddenly conscious of the fact that Rose's concerns were becoming realised.

"No, I didn't," Mary answered. "Rose asked me not to, for the wrong reasons, of course, but..." Mary's face had softened, and she smiled at Sherlock in a gesture of reassurance. "... I think I like her."

 _Mary's pretty cluey when it comes to people,_ John's voice echoed throughout Sherlock's mind. _She's quite intuitive._

In the short amount of time Sherlock had known Mary, she had never given him a reason to mistrust her. The soon-to-be Mrs Watson had liked Rose after such a very short encounter, and she was willing to keep the young woman's secret from her fiancé based on the small amount of information she had on her so far.

Sherlock clenched and stretched his fingers that rested in his lap, debating whether or not to reveal all to the woman seated next to him. Did this woman deserve to know the whole story, because she was willing to keep their secret from her future husband?

Sherlock cleared his throat, deciding in that moment to trust Mary.

"Now it's my turn to travel back in time," Sherlock ventured, but he froze when Mary arched an eyebrow in readiness, for he suddenly had second thoughts about his information sharing.

Unable to make eye contact once more, he turned back to the concrete and brick scenery through the window. After a quick intake of breath, Sherlock launched into his story, reciting it at an almost manic pace.

"About three years ago, unknown to John, I visited a brothel and had sex with a prostitute. I liked it so much that I went back a couple more times. And because I enjoyed her company in particular, I asked if she'd make house calls. So we negotiated a price and a time when John wouldn't be home. But as luck would have it, on her first visit, John finished work early."

Sherlock turned his head and glanced at Mary, and he gave her a weak smile. "So there you have John's first encounter with Shelley, who showed up at my door just after he came home."

He then faced the front of the taxi, and stared, unseeing, straight ahead as he continued.

"As it turns out, being a university student who wanted to write a paper about the psyche of the criminal mind wasn't just a cover Shelley had thought up when confronted by the very awkward situation John's unexpected presence caused. She actually _was_ a mature-age student, who was funding her way through university by working in the sex industry. I deduced the fact that she was a student the first time I met her, but she denied it of course. Despite this initial hiccup, I continued to pay her to come around and service me on a handful of occasions, until she finished her studies and was offered a psychology internship in Cardiff. We said our goodbyes, and two days later I leapt from the roof at Bart's."

Mary took the short break in Sherlock's narrative as an opportunity to breathe. Sherlock stole a breath himself, then felt invigorated enough to face Mary again.

"Shelley did in fact go around to Baker Street a week or so later to offer her condolences to John, and..." Sherlock paused, mentally filtering the part about the drunken conversation and snogging that had occurred between the grieving pair. "And... she confessed to being a _prostitute_ named Rose. I don't know why John didn't remember that little detail, but then again, I guess he'd just suffered a loss."

Mary's mouth went to form a small 'o', before Sherlock continued on.

"I visited her two weeks after my death, scaring the crap out of her, I suppose, but I could only stay one night. Mycroft was busy getting my identity papers together and I couldn't bunk in with the annoying arse, not that I wanted to. I didn't see or make contact with Rose again until I returned to London. I visited her just before interrupting your and John's dinner at the Landmark Hotel."

"Okay," Mary remarked, when she realised at what point Sherlock had reached in his story. "So Rose knew you were alive, too."

"Yes," Sherlock replied, and a sheepish grin escaped him. "But don't tell John."

"I'm beginning to have a long list of things I can't tell John," Mary quipped.

Sherlock exchanged a comfortable glance with Mary, before his expression grew serious again.

"But there's one thing I'd like you to know about Rose," he said, his voice pitched low. "It's rather significant."

"Sure," Mary responded, her own expression softening.

"Rose doesn't work as a prostitute any more. In fact, she hasn't been a sex worker since..." _John Garvie,_ Sherlock's mind recited in hatred. "...since my death. She's actually having a difficult time coming to terms with her past employment, and I... I'm trying to help her through that, without being a constant reminder that she used to have sex with men in exchange for payment."

"Sherlock," Mary exclaimed in sympathy, her voice barely above a whisper.

"On my first night back in London, I asked her to stay with me. London didn't feel the same anymore. The world had moved on, and quite rightly so. I did die, after all." He managed to exchange a smile with Mary, keenly aware that she knew that 'the world' he was referring to was, for the most part, the one that contained John Watson. "She agreed to stay, and of course, being the insensitive bastard that I am, I paid her for her time. We sorted out that misunderstanding eventually, and I think she's forgiven me for that gross error in judgement."

Mary made sympathetic noises, and reached over to squeeze Sherlock's arm.

"I have no idea why I'm telling you all this," he said, suddenly feeling self-conscious. He turned back to the window, and fervently hoped that a serial killer would fall out of the sky.

"You've obviously been through a lot together," Mary said warmly. "And I can tell you care for her a great deal."

Sherlock was relieved when Mary was comfortable letting a silence befall them. He watched the world go by once more, his thoughts returning to the early days of his and Rose's acquaintance, when she was a whore and he was an exploitative, manipulative, arrogant bastard.

After a while, Mary broke into his sombre thoughts. "You know John would be happy for you, regardless of what Rose used to do for a living... that is, if you are actually in a... relationship?"

 _Relationship_ , Sherlock repeated internally. _Now there's an interesting word._

"I'm sure he would be," he responded, returning Mary's amiable smile. "But the request for secrecy comes from Rose, and I want to respect her wishes. I know it's just John in this case, but there's also the bigger picture. I'm a semi-public figure, apparently," he said, rolling his eyes, "and she doesn't want to be seen with me in case some curious journo decides to probe into my life and uncover the background of my new constant companion." Sherlock looked away, gathering his thoughts. "Since I've been back there has barely been a day when I haven't seen her, except when we... had a couple of issues." _Mycroft,_ he thought in bitter distaste, _and that prostitute ex co-worker Rose bumped into._ Sherlock turned back to Mary and added, "But I don't know what we have, Mary. I haven't thought to define it."

He thought about Rose, waiting patiently back in his flat for him, probably frustrated at following yet another complicated origami pattern. The ones he had acquired were written in Japanese, and Rose wasn't impressed when Sherlock slowly rotated one pattern that sat in front of her to show that she'd been trying to follow it sideways. He laughed internally at the memory, causing Mary to remark, "Sherlock Holmes. I think your smile says it all."

When the taxi came to a halt outside the Georgian shop fronts along the Strand, Mary insisted on paying the fare, given that their outing was for her wedding. Sherlock stepped out into the crisp early spring air glad to finally escape the stifling confines of the taxi. On reflection, he knew that the relief he felt for the enormous burden he had been carrying was as a result of his conversation with Mary. It may be useful to have a confidante after all, he mused.

When the woman herself alighted the cab, she smiled broadly at Sherlock. Sherlock stood by the kerb waiting for her, with his hands thrust into his trouser pockets.

"There's definitely a huge benefit to your return to London, you know," she said, sidling up to Sherlock, and looping her arm through the crook of his. "Aside from the obvious, of course."

"What's that?" he asked, as they slowly proceeded along the street toward the boutique cake shop.

"With John. There's a very subtle difference in the way he walks, especially soon after escaping some life endangering situations with you—you know, that guy with the poison dart, and the elephant thingy."

Sherlock hummed in agreement, although he was trying to remember the way John walked. Half a pace behind the detective was all he could come up with.

Mary looked wistfully along the street, and continued with her explanation.

"A bit like a cross between a swagger and a strut," she said. "It's just a little bit sexy."

"Oh," Sherlock responded, feeling uncomfortable with trying to imagine John's new sexy walk.

Mary stopped walking and turned to face Sherlock. "And do you know what happens with men who swagger and strut, Sherlock?"

Sherlock raised his eyebrows, and did his best to look thoughtful. "A cross between a swagger and a strut? Isn't that a... ah... stagger? Do they fall over a lot?"

Mary chuckled lightly. "No," she said condescendingly. "It transfers to the bedroom."

Sherlock's eyes widened by degree, and he suddenly wanted to be a million miles elsewhere.

"Okay," he replied eventually.

"I'm just saying, Sherlock," Mary said, her face bright with enthusiasm, "I'll keep your secrets for you, if you'll find some more cases to share with my fiancé."

Sherlock's face split into a broad grin once he realised Mary's ultimate goal. This was going to be an interesting, new found friendship with his best friend's fiancée.

"Deal."


	34. You're Missing the Obvious, Mate

Sherlock stood in the doorway to his bedroom regarding the figure curled up underneath the quilt. Clearly Rose had decided to reclaim lost sleep in Sherlock's absence. A warm smiled played on his lips, and he entered the room, shedding his jacket as he did so. They had unfinished business, and lunchtime or not, he was joining Rose in bed.

Sherlock lightly threw his jacket onto the chair in the corner of his room, then closed the door. The figure stirred, roused by the clicking of the door latch.

"How did you go?" Rose asked, sleepily eyeing Sherlock as he made his way around to her side of the bed.

The Consulting Detective smiled affectionately at his companion. "Good," he replied, unbuttoning his shirt cuffs before sitting on the edge of the bed beside her. "Hello, Rose," he rumbled in greeting. Sherlock leant over her, and found Rose instantly accommodating as his lips met hers.

He already knew how she would taste, the texture of her lips, and the response he would elicit from her. This knowledge did little to quell his own rising desire and an urgent need to plunder and devour. But he reluctantly drew back. Sherlock assessed that he was still a tad over-dressed.

"Mmm, you taste like fruit cake," Rose sighed, dropping her arms from Sherlock's shoulders as he straightened up.

Sherlock rose so he could undress. "I've brought you a sample of the one we've chosen," he said, rounding the bed while he swiftly unbuttoned his shirt. "I'll make you a cup of tea to go with it later."

He winked at her, and Rose smiled in response. She watched as Sherlock slipped off his shirt and dropped it on top of his jacket. He continued around to his side of the bed and unfastened his trousers.

"And how did you go with Mary?"

"Fine," Sherlock replied simply. His trousers dropped to the floor, and he stooped to pick them up. He shook them out and folded them in half, before they too joined the rest of his garments. "She's taken a sample of the cake home to John," he continued, before removing his boxers. Slipping underneath the quilt, he added, "We had it cut into nine pieces, and she'll tell John that they're from nine different cakes and he'll have to choose one."

Rose turned to her side, and shuffled closer to Sherlock as he did likewise. "Nine slices of the same cake?" she asked.

Sherlock grinned mischievously. "He'll get completely frustrated, but serves him right for not coming with us."

Sherlock edged forward, narrowing the gap between them. He was keen to start cuddling, but Rose drew back, clearly harbouring concerns she wanted to discuss. "But how did you go with Mary and... me... and us... hugging."

"She's fine, Rose," Sherlock answered, bringing his lips to hers anyway. Rose only allowed the detective-genius one kiss, and no more. "And... she likes you," Sherlock added, thinking he had to appease Rose somehow.

He decided to redirect his amorous attention elsewhere. He nibbled behind Rose's ear, listening intently for the sigh that should've escaped her lips, round about...

"But what about John?"

Sherlock's lips skimmed along Rose's jawline. "He likes you, too," he murmured, before nipping the smooth expanse of her neck.

"What! John?"

Sherlock halted his ministrations, realising his error. "He doesn't know anything," he said, quickly correcting himself. "Relax, Rose."

Sherlock dipped his head, and set about navigating Rose's soft curves, destination southward, until she made a definite bid to put distance between them.

"Rose, you're not making this easy."

"We haven't finished talking," Rose replied, pushing lightly against Sherlock's shoulders until he propped himself up onto his elbows somewhere in the vicinity of her midriff.

He looked up at her, impatience furrowing his brow. "I didn't realise we'd _started_ talking."

When Rose narrowed her eyes at him, Sherlock tutted and rolled from her. Fluffing out his pillow, he said, "Fine," and arranged himself at the head of the bed. He sullenly fixed the quilt around his waist, then laced his fingers together before looking over at Rose and raising his eyebrows at her.

Rose pushed the quilt from herself and sat up, turning her body so she could face Sherlock.

"Mary," she began, "what did she say about us?"

Sherlock raised his eyes to the ceiling before heaving a sigh out of boredom. "Yes, she saw us hugging, which confirmed in her own mind the whole sex, money, arrangement thingy," he said, waving a disinterested hand at Rose as he spoke.

"What?"

Sherlock furrowed his brow at Rose, wondering what part of his explanation she had failed to understand.

"John told her ages ago—cute anecdotes relating to Sherlock, or some rubbish," he explained, and when Rose's eyes widened, he added, "You know, the Shelley-Rose _'Sherlock paid me to have sex with him,'_ confession. And then you came out of my bedroom, naked most probably, introducing yourself as Rose, talking about phone-sex or something, and she put two and two together, and—"

"I wasn't naked! And there was no talk about phone-sex! Is that what she said?"

"What?" Sherlock asked, bewildered. He barely remembered speaking; the words were coming out of his mouth and bypassing his brain. Sherlock only had one thing on his mind right now, and speaking coherently was not it. Rose was sitting in front of him and she was very, _very_ naked. "No," he said slowly, trying to remember what he had just uttered. "She didn't say that."

"You're not making any sense."

"Rose," Sherlock said gently, reaching toward her. His hand caressed the silky, smooth expanse of her back, and he looked up at her with what he hoped was an expression of deep sincerity. "I have an erection."

Rose's studied Sherlock's eyes, because his words and his expression seemed at odds. When he failed to offer any further explanation, Rose asked, "That's it? That's all you have to say?"

"Yes. In my defence."

"Your defence of what?"

"Of speaking ineloquently."

Rose opened her mouth to say something, then closed it again when nothing came out. Sherlock continued to wait for her response, raising his eyebrows slightly with a hint of a smile gracing his lips.

Rose frowned at him, and said, "You know, you're probably classified as a genius. But right now, I'm not seeing it."

A devilish grin grew on Sherlock's face, and he pulled Rose closer. He drew up on an elbow and brought his lips to Rose's torso. She shuddered beneath his touch, so he murmured, in between delivering light, feathery kisses, "We haven't had sex since last Thursday."

"Friday," Rose sighed, as Sherlock's efforts had her reclining back onto the mattress at last.

"Friday was just for you," Sherlock retorted, a rough edge to his voice as he loomed over her.

"You didn't want me to do anything to you," Rose explained. "You said you had work to do."

"I know," he agreed, as he stretched his full length along Rose's body, instantly melding to her. Her skin was already heated by his earlier attention. "In hindsight, I should've masturbated in the shower once I'd finished working and found you asleep."

Rose chuckled beneath him. "I thought that's what I was for—offering you an alternate source of friction so you don't have to masturbate."

Sherlock's closed-mouth rumble had Rose laughing along with him, as they both recalled the inexperienced detective's comment to Shelley, after she had just deflowered him. _Unless you've never masturbated before, the end the result is still the same. What you use as friction should be irrelevant._

 _Laughter heals_ , Rose thought, warmed by the moment. And making jokes about being a sex worker with the one person who understood everything she was going through went a long way towards helping her accept her past, and move forward. Besides, this was a memory they both shared.

As the laughter died away, Sherlock pressed his lips to Rose's, kissing away her smile. She wanted to be tasted and touched, to have him take her through all of those familiar sensations, but a mild panic still simmered beneath it all.

When Sherlock's mouth left hers to cruise lazily over her skin, Rose whispered, "Just tell me we're going to be okay."

Sherlock lifted his head, his eyes meeting Rose's. "We're going to be okay," he dutifully repeated. He cupped one breast in his hand, and bent his head, intending to lave her nipple with his tongue.

But Rose hadn't fully given herself over to his attentions just yet.

"And Mary will keep our secret?" she asked, her voice still barely above a whisper.

Sherlock abandoned his attempts with his mouth, and instead used his hands to caress, before responding with, "Yes."

"Do you really trust her?"

"With my life," he murmured. There had been no hesitance in his response. He really wanted to get on with it. When Sherlock dipped his head again, and heard the sweet sigh of pleasure escape Rose's lips, he knew the conversation was finally over.

* * *

Sherlock and Rose had finally settled on a routine that satisfied them both—they would spend Saturday nights and Sundays together at Baker Street, and most week nights that Sherlock wasn't faffing about at Bart's, back at Rose's residence in Leinster Gardens. Rose would spend a few hours in an evening sitting at her dining table, responding to emails or instant messaging sessions as a part of her crisis centre work. She made herself available to respond to messages from 10pm until 2am. Occasionally she took to the phone to discuss various matters with Tracey Yale, her supervisor. During this time, Sherlock laboured through his endless wedding checklists, frequently muttering to himself, or he'd take to Rose's sofa in a fit of inactivity and boredom, sighing loudly so that Rose would lavish him with attention. It didn't always work.

During one such evening, Rose wearily pulled her ear buds from her ears, after she had finished listening to a call that was previously recorded for educational purposes. In between writing emails or messaging via Skype, she would listen to counselling calls that the centre made available to their staff undergoing professional development training.

Rose stretched her arms above her head and yawned. At the same time, Sherlock threw his phone onto the coffee table in exasperation.

He rose from the couch and announced bitterly, "Well, Mike Stamford's out."

Sherlock stormed over to the kitchen, grabbed the kettle, and took it to the sink to fill.

"Who's Mike Stamford?" Rose asked, leaving her seat and drifting over to the brooding detective. She thought she'd heard the name before.

"A friend of John's from Bart's," Sherlock replied. He set the kettle onto its stand and flicked the switch. "They trained together. He's not coming to the wedding."

"Oh," Rose remarked, wondering why Sherlock was upset about this particular RSVP, when there had been a handful of invited guests who had also sent in apologies previously. She knew Sherlock was raging to somebody on the other end of his phone just then, but this in itself wasn't unusual of an evening. Subsequently, she had turned up the volume on her headphones and ignored him.

"Actually, I told him he couldn't come. In hindsight, it may have been a bit harsh and hypocritical on my part."

"Why's that?" Rose asked. She leant against the kitchen bench, ready to lend Sherlock a sympathetic ear. It had already been fine-tuned this evening anyway after attending to the needs of her call centre clients. Sherlock seemed unusually upset, and Rose felt a bit guilty for ignoring his phone conversation when it had apparently grown heated.

Sherlock heaved a sigh, and busied himself with retrieving two coffee mugs from the overhead cabinet. He set about preparing mugs of tea for them both.

"He rang me to confirm that he was coming after all—some conference that he thought he had to attend had been postponed—then he asked about John's stag night. I told him I hadn't even thought about it yet, so he started giving me suggestions." Sherlock began angrily spooning sugar into the mugs as he spoke. "He was pretty adamant about hiring a stripper, and I told him under no circumstances would we have a stripper for John Watson's stag night. So he said a strip _club_ then—the _lads_ would be expecting it." Sherlock lightly tossed the teaspoon onto the bench. Turning to Rose, he said, "Then he told me this not-so-amusing anecdote about one of the porters at Bart's whose own stag night ended in a brothel. Can you believe that?"

"Ah... yes," Rose replied quietly.

Sherlock's expression froze, and his eyes widened when he realised to whom he had been venting.

He blinked multiple times, then stammered, "Did you... have you..."

"Only once in the whole time I was there," Rose answered, her tone unemotional. "It doesn't happen very often, but there are groups of guys who do that sort of thing. Some of them even find it cheaper to take trips abroad. Amsterdam brothels are pretty popular for stag nights."

"And men do this," Sherlock asked. "Normal, every day, groups of males..."

"It only takes one sleazy guy, egged on by his mates to organise a visit. The ones who object probably drift away before the action starts, hoping their mates don't notice."

"And the groom? The man who is actually committed to marrying somebody else?"

Rose shrugged. "He's not necessarily part of the decision making. He might not want a part of it, although some do, especially if it's a planned weekend abroad specifically for alcohol and sex. The group who came through Lyceum Street said they left the groom-to-be passed out in a hotel room. And you know it's not just guys. Some Hen parties can get pretty seedy... or so I'm told."

Sherlock tried to keep his voice even when he asked, "So they all... the stag party... did you all... together?"

"Oh God no. It wasn't like that. We still had one prostitute per client in separate rooms. They had to pay individually. Mark said, in hindsight, we should've offered them a deal. Our little house wasn't set up for orgies." When Sherlock's eyebrows shot up, Rose weakly offered, "So... I only did the best man. He was drunk, and he couldn't... finish."

This was not the information Sherlock wanted to acquire so casually. He huffed and turned back to the tea, pouring the water into the mugs. _The best man._ The thought sickened him. _He_ was the best man, and Rose had already _done him._

Feeling completely self-conscious, and regretting her last item of disclosure, Rose hastened over to the fridge to retrieve the milk. She brought it back and hesitantly placed it on the bench next to the tea things. Sherlock decided to continue his story without looking up from jiggling the tea bags in the mugs.

"After I'd given Mike a lecture about the exploitation of women, he tried to make it clear that he just wanted a stripper, not a prostitute. I advised him that the issue was still the same, and if he maintained the belief that these women are employed in this industry by choice, then he wasn't welcome at the stag night, or for that matter, the wedding."

Rose gaped at him, but Sherlock kept his attention firmly on his tea bag jiggling.

"You said what?" Rose asked.

Sherlock bowed his head and breathed out deeply. "I may have been channelling Ms Small at the time."

"Oh, Sherlock," Rose said, wrapping her arms around one of his.

"Of course I'm a complete hypocrite," he muttered, plopping the tea bags onto the counter. He went to grab the milk that Rose had placed next to the mugs, so Rose released his arm.

"Sherlock," she said softly, fixing him with steady gaze until his eyes met hers. "You and I aren't the same people we used to be."

Sherlock couldn't maintain eye contact with Rose for very long. He concentrated on pouring milk into their mugs—a task that required his utmost attention apparently—and then slowly stirred the tea in both. Just how was he different to these... _hooligans._.. who thought it was perfectly acceptable to include in their lads' evening of entertainment a trip to a brothel. How was he different? Sherlock's stomach felt tight, and he began to find it difficult to breathe. He looked down, and tried to concentrate on the task at hand. _Tea._ They were having tea together. _Tea and biscuits._ Sherlock tapped the spoon on the side of the cup to get rid of the residual liquid.

Clenching the teaspoon a little too tightly, he said, "But I was wrong. I made a mistake."

"It's in the past. It doesn't matter now," Rose responded, a little too readily for Sherlock's liking.

He dropped the spoon and turned to her, a solid lump forming in his throat. "I should never have sought the services of a sex worker."

"Sherlock—"

"I shouldn't have paid you to come to my place, or demanded a cheaper rate, or—"

"Sherlock, don't do this."

"—or forced you to lower your defences. I made you feel vulnerable. I exploited your financial situation, and disregarded your own emotional needs."

"Stop it," she urged him quietly.

The guilt Sherlock had felt when his actions had been analysed and criticised by The Clarence House Cannibal came to the fore. The feeling was as raw now as it had been on the evening Ms Small had told the detective that he was no better than the MP, John Garvie.

Sherlock leant back against the kitchen counter, taking his gaze from Rose and focussing on a spot on the floor some distance away. "I didn't care about you as another human being," he continued, his voice rasping slightly. "You were merely a service I needed and used."

 _Just where has this all come from?_ Rose asked herself. She moved in front of the dejected genius. "It was three years ago," she said softly, reaching for his hands when his eyes met hers. "Everything's changed."

"No, Rose. This was as recent as five months ago."

"But everything's... changed... now." Rose's eyes began to sting. _Had_ everything changed? Sherlock had confirmed for her that he no longer saw her as a sex worker. Was he taking that back? Panic took hold of Rose's heart, making her pulse thready.

"When I came back to London, I didn't imagine I'd be... alone." Sherlock brought their hands together, and distractedly skimmed his thumb over Rose's, keeping his gaze lowered. His thoughts had drifted back to the days after his so-called resurrection. "I felt isolated from everybody I knew, even though I was physically among them." Sherlock fixed his eyes on Rose, the blue-grey irises glistening with the intensity of the self-loathing Sherlock had brought upon himself. "I needed you for a purpose. And I paid you £800 for it."

"I know, but—"

"I bullied you into taking me in," Sherlock continued, "and I didn't believe you would want to be around me if not for monetary gain."

Rose drew her hand out of Sherlock's grasp and reached out, gently cupping his cheek. "That says more about how you felt about yourself," Rose carefully explained, "than what you thought of me." Her face softened as she tried to give Sherlock a smile in reassurance. "You didn't believe you deserved to have someone care for you—that _I_ could care for you—when everyone else you were close to seemed too busy to fit you into their new lives." Rose brushed Sherlock's cheek with her thumb, as he studied her intensely. "I let you into my life because I wanted you there, not because you bribed me or bullied me. And it was a misunderstanding—the money thing. We've sorted it."

Sherlock covered Rose's hand with his, and brought them back down to hold between them. "Until very recently, I thought it was perfectly okay to pay a woman for her company, and for the use of her body. _Your_ body, Rose."

She noted the desolation in his eyes, and she slid her arms up to his neck. She was just about to offer him further reassurances when, in a sudden rush of movement, Sherlock pulled Rose into a firm embrace.

"I'm sorry," he bid her, his voice cracking. Sherlock buried his face into Rose's neck, a sickly feeling of shame and self-disgust overpowering him.

Rose felt a wave of tenderness toward him. She held him close, his head cradled by the crook of her neck, and she gently stroked a hand across his shoulders. Sherlock had threaded his fingers into Rose's hair and held fast.

"Forgive me," he said, his voice almost like gravel, and his hold on her intensifying.

Rose's heart jolted at hearing the desperation in his voice. Whatever Tonya Small had said to him, it had sat with him since before Christmas when Rose herself had succumbed to her own grief. It had probably eaten away at him, until his guilt consumed him and he had lashed out when triggered by Mike Stamford's ill-timed request.

How could she forgive him when she didn't think he'd done anything wrong in the first place?

There was a long silence while Sherlock clung to her, but then she felt his breath hitch. Realisation dawned on her as to the extent of his turmoil.

He was crying.

Rose felt the pressure building up behind her own eyes. She continued to hold him. She would give him as long as he needed to let his emotions free.

Before too long, Rose felt Sherlock release his firm hold. He pressed his lips to her neck then straightened up. He swiftly turned back to the kitchen counter, avoiding eye contact with Rose, and said, "You should really get that."

Rose was confused for a split second until she realised that an instant message on her computer was beeping at her.

"Sherlock," she began. She didn't want to dismiss what had just happened so readily, but Sherlock had picked up the teaspoon again and began stirring their teas once more in earnest.

"Please answer that," he bid her in a low voice.

Rose quickly turned from him and hastened over to her computer. She bent over the table, instead of sitting in her chair, and quickly typed a greeting in response. Sherlock brought over her mug of tea, and silently placed it next to her computer.

Rose looked up at him, and went to open her mouth to speak, but Sherlock beat her to it.

"Stay focussed on your work," he said, retreating to the living area with his own tea. "You've already lost one job because of me."

He took a seat in the armchair that faced away from Rose, rather than the sofa where he usually sat, and retrieved his wedding checklist from the coffee table in front of him after depositing his tea.

"Sherlock," she said softly, as she made her way over to him.

"Don't, Rose. Help someone who needs you," he said without looking around. "I don't know how you can stand me," he muttered under his breath.

He was pushing her away, Rose concluded. A classic defence mechanism, and he was probably embarrassed about his emotional response. He was feeling particularly vulnerable and was putting up walls. Perhaps now was the time to let him know just what he meant to her.

" _Stand you_?" she repeated, walking around his chair and seating herself on the coffee table in front of him. "Sherlock," she said, leaning forward into his personal space until he had no choice but to meet her gaze. His eyes still swam with unshed tears, and Rose knew immediately what her next words should be.

"Sherlock," she said again, reaching for his hand and imploring him with her eyes. "I'm in love with you."


	35. You'll Have to Make a Speech, Of Course

The hot water hammered his back, and steady streams and rivulets cascaded over his bowed head. Sherlock stood in Rose's shower stall and tried to make sense of the evening. His heart was no longer tachycardic, but his stomach still somersaulted whenever he replayed Rose's words in his mind.

_Sherlock, I'm in love with you._

He blinked a couple of times to allow his mind and body to respond of their own accord. As a result, a slow grin spread across his face, and the pounding of the shower against his head began to sound like applause.

She loved him.

Sherlock closed his eyes and transported himself back to Rose's living room. Her hand had felt warm in his, her smile genuine, and her eyes glistened with affection.

_I'm in love with you._

These words uttered by anyone else may have been met with ridicule, disdain and a mocking laugh. Love, of course, was one of those _emotion_ things, in direct contrast to the pure cold reason that Sherlock held above all things. But these were spoken by Rose—a person he respected, and genuinely liked, and who never spoke carelessly.

Sherlock had once remarked that the chemistry of love was incredibly simple, and very destructive. In fact, he had said these words to the one woman who, in a way, was responsible for him meeting Rose in the first place. _The Woman_. The woman who repeated James Moriarty's nickname for him as if it were a flaw—the Virgin. And look how far he had come from resembling that epithet.

Yes, he understood the chemistry of love—the neurological and physiological processes. He knew how it influenced the behaviour of people, and gave them motives to commit criminal acts. But this... this declaration from _Rose_ held so much meaning. This meant that she cared about him, too. She wasn't disgusted by his treatment of her in those early days. She had forgiven him. It meant that his efforts over the last few months—to make Rose happy, to show her how much he cared for and respected her, and to make her feel special—were all a success.

This was his reward. It was like he had been presented with a shining medal to hang around his neck.

 _And the gold medal for_ The Man Most Deserving of Love _is awarded to: Sherlock Holmes._

Sherlock allowed another soppy grin to grace his features again. He straightened up and turned the taps of the shower off.

_...in love with you._

Yes, it was him and no other.

Of course, at the time these words had been spoken, they failed to register in Sherlock's mind. In fact, his systems had shut down; a blank screen was presented to him with nothing but a single blinking cursor in the top left-hand corner. The only other time he had gone offline, was when John Watson had told him that he, Sherlock Holmes, was his best man. His best friend. _The two people that I love and care about most in the world... Mary Morstan and... you._

But Rose hadn't been concerned. It was as if she _knew_ what was going on inside his head, or not going on as the case may be. She had huffed a tiny laugh, and leant forward, planting a soft kiss on his lips.

The kiss of life, as it turned out. Sherlock had blinked rapidly as she drew away from him. All he could utter in response was a hoarse, "I don't deserve that."

Rose's expression was soft, and her tone maybe a little condescending, when she explained to him all the reasons he _deserved this._ Then she had kissed him again, stood up, and said she had work to do.

"Perhaps you'd like to take a shower?" she had suggested. "I'll take my computer into the bedroom, and when I'm finished working, you can make love to me. That would be an appropriate response."

Sherlock slowly dried himself with his towel, but his spirits were light, and the idea of being loved by Rose wrapped itself around his heart as comfortably as his favourite blue scarf would entwine his neck.

He left the bathroom with the towel slung low around his hips, noting that the rest of the flat was now in darkness. Obviously Rose had retired to her bedroom, and was waiting for him to enter and make an acceptance speech or something.

But he found Rose sitting up in bed, rapidly typing away, her brow furrowed and her dressing gown wrapped around her. Sherlock cleared his throat out of nervousness, but Rose merely glanced up at him, offered a smile in acknowledgement, then turned her attention back to her screen.

Sherlock hovered by the side of the bed in a quandary. What should he do? Dress in his pyjamas, or slip into bed naked? On a normal night, the regular, original edition, _unloved_ Sherlock Holmes would drop the towel to the ground and slide between the sheets, wrapping his naked body around Rose's equally nude form. And if she were busy working, as she was tonight, he would slide his hand between her legs until she slapped it, and told him off. Sometimes she neither slapped his hand, nor told him off. Mixed messages there.

Thus was the routine of an _unloved_ detective genius.

The new and improved version, the Consulting Detective who was _loved,_ dropped the towel to the ground, and slid, somewhat awkwardly between the sheets. His movements were stiff and unnatural, because a man who was the object of someone's love and affection would coordinate his body a little more skilfully, therefore he was showing himself to be a fraud.

He arranged the quilt over himself, taking care not to bump Rose's computer. He slid lower, laced his fingers together and stared at the ceiling. There was an intermittent silence only punctuated by soft sighs from Rose when she was reading whatever message she was receiving in response. Then the rapid typing would start again. Sherlock continued studying the stark white ceiling, but tried to analyse Rose's actions in the periphery of his vision.

"Are you going to lie there like a corpse all night?" she eventually asked him.

"I don't know what else to do," was his immediate uncensored response as his eyes remained fixed on the roof.

Rose tapped away some more before closing the lid of her laptop. She placed it on her bedside table, then turned to face Sherlock, shuffling closer.

"This doesn't have to change anything between us," she remarked, snuggling into his neck and planting a soft kiss on her lover's cheek.

"How could it not?" he asked, not daring to meet her eyes. His face grew heated with her touch. Every gesture felt strange now. Every move was heralded with a big banner that proclaimed, _I'm in love with you._ While _nice,_ it obviously required communication protocols with which he was not familiar.

To Sherlock's annoyance, Rose chuckled lightly and gently slid her hand underneath the quilt. She rubbed his chest affectionately and brushed her lips against his cheek once more.

"Just because I've told you that I love you, doesn't mean I expect anything different from you. And I don't expect you to return the sentiment. This is something I wanted to say because I think it's important to let you know how I feel right now, after everything that's happened between us. I know you don't say such things, and I don't expect you to. I love you because of everything you've already done for me. I love you for being yourself. Just keep acting the same way."

Sherlock furrowed his brow and turned his head, meeting Rose's gaze. "But sometimes I come back from Bart's at three in the morning. I don't even ring you to say where I am."

"So?" Rose asked, keeping a straight-face but smiling internally at Sherlock's literal interpretation of her suggestion.

"So you don't want me to stop doing that?"

"You don't do that all the time. And I have a vague idea where you are and what you're up to. But of course, if you've been lying to me all this time, and you were actually fucking somebody else, well..." Rose said, rising on her elbow, and sliding her hand suggestively along Sherlock's torso. "… you're going to have to stop doing that."

"I s'pose I could stop fucking all of the female nurses on nightshift," Sherlock drawled. "Won't do morale any good though."

A tiny laugh escaped Rose, and she leant forward, capturing Sherlock's lips with hers. "Lucky nurses," she whispered, in between delivering light kisses to the detective.

Her other hand stole lower, and Sherlock hummed against her mouth in approval. He lifted his hands and cradled her face as he deepened their kiss.

 _So this is the aftermath of Rose declaring her love for me_ , he thought. _So far, so good_.

But Sherlock strove to obtain the upper hand, so to speak, and show Rose what he was still capable of. With the coordination of his former self, Sherlock out-manoeuvred his lover, and had her on her back, emitting soft sighs of pleasure—music to his ears. His ravenous mouth and dextrous fingertips attended to Rose's every need, until she finally gave herself over to the cascade of sensations he delivered to her.

She returned the favour in quick time, feasting on Sherlock until the build up of ecstasy became unbearable. His orgasm only preceded Rose's instant message alert by mere seconds.

Out of breath, his chest heaving, Sherlock quipped, "You really should get that."

* * *

A delightfully wonderful addition was made to Sherlock and Rose's goodbye routine. Sherlock would rumble, "Goodbye Rose," then deliver a tender kiss. Next Rose would bid him a goodbye, then whisper, "I love you," giving Sherlock's heart a welcome kick-start. Finally he would deliver another kiss in acknowledgement.

This new routine was invoked almost daily, depending on their respective movements. But if it was interrupted, by, for example, Rose reminding Sherlock that she would be home late because the staff at the entertainment store were going out for drinks to celebrate Sunil's birthday, then they would have to start the ritual again. Sherlock wouldn't have it any other way.

On the last Saturday in March, this farewell routine took place far too early as far as Rose was concerned. She was due to work at the store all day, and Saturdays usually commenced with her farewells to Sherlock as he lay in bed. This time, he was awake hours before Rose's usual wake time.

This Saturday, Sherlock was offering his services to the time keepers of Big Ben. The last Sunday in March was the commencement of British Summer Time, and the team responsible for winding the Great Clock forward had to do the same with over two thousand clocks around the Parliamentary Estate. They would start early on a Saturday morning with the clocks scattered around the Palace of Westminster and Portcullis House, then turn the lights off the clockface of the Elizabeth Tower at 10pm. They'd wind the hands forward to midnight, but not restart the clock until the new midnight. Giving themselves two hours to test that the time was correct, they wouldn't turn the clockface lights back on until 2am. Any office clocks that hadn't been changed by that time would be finished in the wee hours of Sunday morning.

Sherlock, of course, saw this as an opportunity to have a snoop around the offices of the country's peers and MPs, on the off-chance that he would find interesting snippets of information about some of them. This time, however, there were three offices in particular to which he was interested in gaining access—the office of the member for Rockwell South, John Garvie, the party Chief Whip's office, and of course, the office of Mycroft Holmes.

Sherlock was still on a fact-finding mission about the one man who had destroyed Rose's spirit, once upon a time. Sherlock didn't expect to find anything incriminating in the MP's Parliamentary office, but it was a good basis to start with. In years gone by, it was the party's Chief Whip who held the so-called "Dirt Books" on party members, listing indiscretions in order to use them against the offenders so they'd toe the party line. Officially, such books or files were no longer kept. Unofficially, the opposite was true, and Sherlock was hoping to find entries pertaining to Rose's seedy former client—indiscretions of a political nature, and not of a deviant sexual history. Sherlock already knew all of those sordid details, and he hoped nobody else had documented it.

Take the Chief Whip's Dirt Book, multiply it ten-fold, and you have the Secret Files of Mycroft Holmes. Not only would Sherlock ensure his brother's clock was out by five minutes, as was his custom, he would also raid the _minor Government official's_ filing cabinets for any dirt on Garvie. And Sherlock knew where all of the secret panels, hideaways and undocumented passageways were.

Rose only stirred slightly when Sherlock kissed her cheek and said, "Goodbye Rose." He attempted to brush her lips with his, before trailing light kisses over her face, along her jawline, and the sensitive areas of her neck. He bid her goodbye once more, and she only hummed in response. This was not good enough. Sherlock needed to hear her tell him she loved him. This was his fix for the day. He nudged her some more, and made his kisses linger. Rose stirred and rolled to her back.

"Rose," Sherlock prompted. When there was no further response, he leant over her, and raised his voice. "Rose!"

Rose was awake in an instant. She propped herself up on her elbows and exclaimed, "Oh, God! What?" She stared wide-eyed and bewildered at Sherlock.

The detective lowered his voice to an acceptable _first-thing-in-the-morning_ level. "I'm going now."

"What?" Rose gasped in exasperation. She slumped back downwards and rolled to her side. "Fuck," she murmured. "So just go already."

Sherlock thrust out his bottom lip, brooding. This wasn't the farewell he had signed up for. He kissed her again, sweetly, tenderly, until she parted her lips and he dove inside. When she lazily wound her arms around his neck he withdrew. It was time.

"Goodbye, Rose."

"Why did you wake me and get me all worked up, if you're leaving now?" she sleepily grumbled.

"I have to go," Sherlock reiterated, ignoring Rose's complaint. "And don't forget I may be late tonight. I won't be able to run your bath for you."

"That's okay," she murmured, then rolled onto her side once more.

"Goodbye, Rose," Sherlock repeated, struggling to keep his voice light and casual. He was setting the world record for the number of times he had farewelled her in one morning.

_Just say the fucking words._

"Mmm, goodbye Sherlock."

Sherlock hovered over her, and raised his eyebrows, counting the seconds as they ticked by. Rose sensed his looming presence and opened her eyes, turning her head to look up at him. "What?"

Sherlock's eyes grew dark and huge, and his shoulders slumped just a little. A sly smile grew on Rose's face and she reached for him. Carding her fingers through his curls, she whispered, "I love you, Sherlock."

Sherlock's face split into a broad grin. _About fucking time!_ He leant forward and pressed his lips to Rose's. She responded in kind, and held him to her so he couldn't make a quick getaway. She was wide awake now, and she was demanding more from Sherlock's goodbye kiss then he had originally intended to give.

Sherlock understood what was happening here, and reluctantly pulled away from her.

"I'll be late," he said, his voice a little rough around the edges. He tutted and rolled his eyes. The goodbye ritual was broken, and Rose knew it too, judging by the tiny fire that was lit in her eyes.

"Come back to bed," she said enticingly.

"I'm supposed to be there in half an hour."

"You're winding the clocks back, so technically you have an hour and a half."

"The clocks are going forward," Sherlock said through narrow eyes.

Rose arched a seductive eyebrow. "Come finish what you started," she said in a half-whisper.

"Rose, I'm fully dressed."

The temptress reached out and threaded her fingers through Sherlock's. "Is your hand?"

Sherlock was delayed another fifteen minutes. Rose chuckled when she realised what state he was in as he made to depart. As the Consulting Detective grabbed a cab around the corner from Leinster Gardens, he vowed that the next time he serviced Rose right before he was due to leave, he must remember to take a mental trip to the Himalayas so he himself didn't become aroused at watching Rose come undone.

His twelve hours work in The Palace of Westminster yielded a small hint of a scandal. John Garvie's expense account wasn't quite up to scratch, and the MP's communication with a certain building contractor raised eyebrows. Still, Sherlock would have to break into the man's constituency office in Rockwell South if he was going to find further evidence of corruption. Something for a later date then.

* * *

Wedding preparations reached a feverish pitch once March turned into April. The stress brought by the potential logistics surrounding John's stag night was alleviated when Rose suggested that Sherlock, as John's best man and best friend, take John out for a drink himself—just the two of them, with no chance for the night to degenerate into debauchery according to the lowest common denominator. If John wanted to have an evening out drinking with his hospital buddies or ex-army mates, then he could do so on a separate occasion without Sherlock's presence.

Sherlock set about choosing a suitable theme, so that the night could be elevated beyond a simple drinks at the pub scenario. He even asked Molly Hooper if she could help him calculate his and John's ideal alcohol intake so they could "remain in the sweet spot" the whole evening, and not get ill, thus spoiling the mood. The stag night was to take place one week before the wedding.

Rose was becoming worried about Sherlock's mental state. He could remain in an extreme state of agitation for hours at a time if plans weren't coming along according to his specifications. When the DJ called to cancel, due to being double-booked, Sherlock sulked for three days. Rose tried to tell him to not take it as a personal rejection, but the detective remained on her sofa, with his back to her and sighed loudly every so often. She'd never seen a grown man behave in such an immature manner before.

When she had to go to work, Sherlock woke while she was having a shower, and positioned himself on her sofa once more, so he could make an obvious visual display about being upset. She gave him a kiss on the cheek anyway, and said goodbye. He said nothing until she was just about to exit through her front door.

"You didn't say _I love you_ ," he sullenly informed her.

"I didn't think you even noticed I was leaving," Rose replied, stifling a laugh. She made her way back over to him, and sat on the edge of the sofa as he rolled onto his back. "Goodbye Sherlock," she whispered, bending over him and delivering a kiss onto his lips. "I love you."

She could see that Sherlock was pretending that her effort was only just passable. She knew he was thrilled every time she uttered those three words.

"What are you going to do today?" she asked, thinking she had a few extra minutes before she had to catch the tube to the entertainment store. She didn't mind having to repeat their farewell ritual.

Sherlock sighed heavily, then shrugged. "I dunno. Plot the downfall of a particular DJ."

"Look, why don't you have a break from wedding preparations. _I_ can find a DJ. You can work through all those cases people have been emailing."

"Oh. Dull," Sherlock sighed. "And how can _you_ find a DJ? There aren't any acceptable ones left."

"It depends on your definition of _acceptable._ And anyway, you were only working through the list of _wedding_ DJs. There are plenty who don't actually specify just weddings. I know a couple from when I jumped out of a cake. They do stag nights, 21sts—"

"Totally inappropriate. We need a _wedding_ DJ. Not someone who can play bawdy music to some woman getting her kit off."

Rose chuckled lightly. "It doesn't matter, Sherlock. It's just music. They'll play whatever John and Mary want."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Nineties disco music."

"So? That's fine if that's what they want. Just leave it with me, okay?"

"Fine," Sherlock replied sullenly.

Rose squeezed Sherlock's hand affectionately. She had been working on distracting him with something else for three days, and this was the first time he had agreed to anything.

"Why don't you continue working on your speech?" she suggested. "Did you get very far? Did you find that book at all helpful?"

Sherlock tutted. It seemed that the only tasks left were those he had been striving to avoid.

"I made a start," he replied. "But then I got stuck. The book was useless in that regard."

"How much have you written?"

"I haven't written anything. It's all in my head."

Rose's expression softened, and she smiled at Sherlock encouragingly. "So let's hear it."

Sherlock pulled himself up a little, and cleared his throat. "Ladies and Gentlemen, Family and Friends, and..."

The Consulting Detective looked up at Rose expectantly.

"And what?" she asked.

"And that's it," he replied. "Well, the book says something about adding 'Distinguished Guests' if there are any, which there aren't. And on further analysis, most of the people who don't belong to the Family and Friends category, don't necessarily belong to the Ladies and Gentlemen category either. Some of them are practically savages."

"Sherlock, it doesn't matter. It's just an opening to your speech."

Sherlock sighed in exasperation. "If I'm going to start categorising people in my speech, then I can't just leave people out. Do you know how my mind works at all?"

"I think I do," Rose replied, struggling to remain as serious as Sherlock appeared to be.

"When I walk into a room full of people, my mind automatically assesses each and every one of them. If my _speech_ commences with putting people into very specific groups, then I'm going to keep categorising until everybody fits. Do you see my problem?"

"I do. Quite clearly."

"The research I've conducted to date about each wedding guest has generated a list of common personality types such as strategic thinkers, innovators, strong-willed leaders, mediators—"

"Sherlock—"

"Well you know all about that, being a psychology graduate. And then there's another list of personality traits. Using a logic grid, I can mark off each trait against—"

"Sherlock—"

"Naturally there are overlaps. If I can just isolate—"

"Sherlock!"

Sherlock frowned at being interrupted during his recitation of his thought processes.

Rose gently caressed his hand to reduce his stress levels. She could see that he was going to get himself worked up again.

"It really doesn't matter," she said gently. "At this point in your speech, it's only meant as a general greeting. Just lump everybody else into another category and get on with it."

"Another category for everybody else?" Sherlock repeated in distaste.

"Yes. Just... you know... ' _Ladies and Gentlemen, Family and Friends, and... Others.'"_

" _Others?"_

"Yes. Why not? If you start looking around and seeing the guests as—"

"Adulterers, Liars and Incontinent Sufferers."

"Something like that," Rose laughed. "Just catch yourself by naming them as _Others_. Okay?"

Sherlock redirected his gaze to the ceiling, as if this was something he had to consider for a while. Rose bit her lip to prevent herself from laughing again. She could see that composing Sherlock's Best Man speech was going to be a long and painful process. For them both.

"Okay, I have to go," she said, standing up and smoothing out her skirt.

Sherlock sat up and swung his legs to the ground. He bowed his head and ruffled his hair.

"How about I help you with your speech when I get home tonight?" Rose suggested. "You can spend the day coming up with funny stories about John."

"Funny stories about John?" Sherlock asked, looking up at her, perplexed. He rose from the couch and reached for her. He wanted to make sure their farewell stuck to protocol.

"Did you read much of that book at all?" Rose asked.

"Yes," Sherlock said emphatically. "It mentioned anecdotes or some rubbish."

"Yes, anecdotes, about you and John, or some about John specifically. It's more entertaining if they're funny. Ring his other friends. They must have some stories you can use. Okay?"

"Fine."

Rose smiled. She was making progress in her bid to pull Sherlock out of his dark place. She twined her arms around his neck and felt warmed when Sherlock banded his arms around her waist.

"Goodbye Rose," he said, the last remnants of his massive sulk practically disappearing.

"Bye Sherlock," Rose responded, narrowing the gap between them and touching her lips to Sherlock's. "I love you."

Rose was relieved to receive Sherlock's smile at long last. But they still had just over one month until the wedding. She didn't know how he was going to cope in the days leading up to it. But worse than that, what would he do with himself once the wedding was over?

Sherlock padded to the bathroom once Rose had left for the tube. _Funny stories about John. How hard could that be?_ Sherlock decided to shower and dress, then leave for Baker Street. He would strive to make good progress on his speech this morning by documenting all of the times John came up with an incorrect deduction. It would be hilarious.

* * *

When Rose returned home that evening, she found Sherlock sitting at the dining table, tapping away on her computer.

"Hello," she said, bending down and kissing his forehead before hurrying into the kitchen with a bag of groceries. "Busting for the loo."

Sherlock barely looked up as Rose deposited her shopping onto the kitchen counter. She swiftly exited into the small passageway that lead to her bathroom. When she returned, she had already shed her work clothes, and was tying her dressing gown around what Sherlock assumed was her undergarments.

"Have you been here all day?" Rose asked.

"Come on Rose. You can make a better deduction than that," Sherlock challenged without looking up from the screen.

Rose began unpacking her shopping while she gave Sherlock the once over.

"Different shirt from this morning," she began.

"I was in pyjamas this morning."

"Well, it's a different shirt to yesterday's then."

"Excellent. You're on fire so far."

Rose smiled to herself. Sherlock was showing some of his old spark again. He must've had a good day.

"Have you been working on your speech? And before you come back with a sarcastic remark, no I can't see your screen from here."

Sherlock sighed, and commenced typing in earnest. "A bit," he replied in a low voice. He wanted to avoid talking about his speech for the moment.

Rose deposited her milk and a box of eggs in the fridge. She grabbed the kettle, checked its water level, then flicked the switch. As she came back to Sherlock, she remarked, "I heard on the news that the police were holding some kind of anti-terror training in Baker Street. Did you see it?"

Sherlock briefly closed his eyes and swore under his breath. "No."

Not noticing his non-verbal response, Rose took the seat across from him and idly picked up his _Best Man Speech_ book. Flicking through it, she continued. "Some kind of mock drill. Perhaps it was in the Underground at the Baker Street station?"

"Mm," he replied non-commitedly. _Damn Lestrade,_ Sherlock thought in reflection. _What was the man thinking?_

"Some SWAT vehicles and a bomb squad I heard. Lots of drama." Rose lay the book aside and drifted back to the kitchen. "One of the salesmen said there was even a helicopter. How could it manage to land in Baker Street? Are you sure you didn't hear anything?"

Sherlock remained reticent. How could the Scotland Yard Detective Inspector mistake Sherlock's text, asking for assistance in compiling amusing anecdotes about John Watson, for a request to launch a full-scale tactical response outside his flat?

There was silence as Rose prepared two mugs of tea.

"I've found a DJ," she informed Sherlock after a fashion.

"Oh good. What's their name? Surname first please."

Rose looked around from her tea preparations. Sherlock had opened his file containing his notes and lists for the wedding.

"Are you going to check up on him?"

"No," Sherlock said curtly. "There's no time. I'm adding the DJ to my other list."

"What do you mean, 'there's no time?' You've got over a month to go. And what other list?"

"Background checks take longer than you think." Sherlock held up a sheet of paper and said, "This is my list of suspects."

"Suspects for what?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Have you forgotten the attack on John Watson on Guy Fawkes Night?"

"Oh," Rose responded in a small voice. _That list._ "So who's on it so far?"

"Well, your DJ, obviously. Mary's changed her hairdresser at the last minute, so the replacement has made the list. The three bridesmaids, purely because I wasn't allowed to conduct a background check on them _at all._ And I've underlined the Maid of Honour, because she won't even be at the Rehearsal Dinner. I won't meet her until the day of the wedding. Very suspicious. _Busy with work,_ apparently."

"What does she do?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Some kind of P.A. John said she has to follow her boss in his travels all over Europe. You've should've seen the look Mary gave John at letting slip that tiny snippet of information. You'd think it was a state secret. Anyway, two of the staff at the Sutton Mallet B&B have made the list. Then there's David _the ex-boyfriend_ , also underlined, plus the photographer that John organised. I haven't even seen his portfolio. John's hopeless."

"A small list of suspects then," Rose quipped.

"Name?" Sherlock repeated, his pen poised to record the details of the dubious-sounding DJ.

Rose told Sherlock to hunt around in her handbag for the DJ's business card, since all of his details were listed there. Sherlock busily scrawled away, once he'd found the card, then deposited his file on the other side of the computer. He closed the lid and then rose from the table.

"Oh, where did you want this?" Rose asked as she came toward him with both mugs of tea.

"I'll join you on the sofa," Sherlock said pleasantly. "I've had enough for one day. It's time for cuddling."

Rose was charmed by Sherlock's irresistible smile. They usually had cuddle-time when neither of them could be bothered doing any more work in the evening. They would settle down together on her sofa, rather sedately with their cups of tea. Sherlock would deduce every character on telly, and Rose would confirm or deny his deductions with either her knowledge of the actors, or by searching the internet. Sherlock was wrong most of the time, due to the talent of the actors in inhabiting the characters they played. Sherlock didn't quite understand the entertainment industry.

Once they'd consumed their tea, they would lie down and snuggle while they continued their game. Now and again, they would pause for a quick snog, and by the end of the evening, they would both decide it was time to take their rather heated antics to the bedroom.

Tonight, though, they spent more time cuddling and kissing than playing _spot the bad actor._ As Sherlock coaxed increasingly primitive responses out of Rose, she sighed an _I love you._

Sherlock lifted his head in hearing Rose's declaration uttered without the correct precursor. "I'm not going anywhere," he remarked.

"I know," she sighed, running her fingers through his hair. "And I'm glad."

Sherlock grinned, his eyes crinkling at the corners. When his mouth lowered again to hers, he wondered what it would feel like to utter those three little words back to her.


	36. Swan or Sydney Opera House?

**Chapter 36 - Swan or Sydney Opera House?**

Rose's eyes widened at the message she'd received on her phone. She felt a warm flush spreading across her cheeks, and a slight stutter in her heart. The involuntary physiological reactions weren't the result of a pleasant surprise.

_Oh God, Sherlock. What are you doing._

She turned around in her swivel chair and regarded Gus, her co-worker. His back was to her as he faced his computer screen. He was playing Solitaire. Again.

_Arsehole._

Resisting the urge to whack him on the back of the head, Rose stood up, straightened her skirt, and smoothed her hair. Goodness knows why. The man who was waiting for her outside had seen her in disarray many times.

Pausing by the door, she checked her phone one more time, hoping Sherlock would send her an ' _I'm only joking'_ message. But he hadn't. His message remained on her screen, effectively making her alternate universe collide with reality.

_I'm looking at some weird electrical appliances. Could you come join me if you're not too busy? I need your help. I don't like the woman who tried to offer her assistance. —SH_

Trying to exude a calm air, Rose exited her little office at the back of Roche's Home Entertainment store with one thought on her mind: why was Sherlock Holmes shopping in her workplace?

She spotted his out-of-place personage in quick time over by the Health & Beauty appliances. Stifling the desire to laugh, Rose hastened over to him.

Sherlock had his brow furrowed as he held a boxed appliance in one hand. Rose stopped beside him.

Without looking up, he said, "What exactly is the purpose of this device?"

"It's for straightening hair."

Sherlock pointed to several boxes on the shelf in front of him. "Yet these are for curling hair. Can't people make up their minds?"

Rose folded her arms in front of her, and smiled in spite of herself. She replied, "I guess some people aren't satisfied with the type of hair God gave them."

Sherlock's attention was immediately drawn to Rose. With his brow furrowed, he remarked, "Don't tell me you believe in that ludicrous fantasy, too, Rose. How could I not have deduced that about you?"

"I don't," she replied. "It's just an expression. Sherlock, what are you doing here?"

Sherlock heaved a sigh in frustration. Placing the appliance back onto the shelf, he answered, "I'm trying to find a wedding present for John and Mary. This is clearly the worst day of my life."

At this remark, Rose couldn't help but chuckle.

"I'm pretty sure John doesn't need to straighten his hair," she offered.

"Who knows?" Sherlock said with a shrug. "In his obvious obsession with me, he may like to curl it."

Rose huffed a small laugh again. "I'm not sure you'll find anything suitable in this aisle."

"And that's the problem I had to begin with. That woman over there tried to sell me a television set. As John and Mary shacked up some time during my supposed death, they've already accumulated everything a couple could ever want. This is a ridiculous exercise."

"Don't they have a gift register?"

"Yes, but I almost died of boredom in Selfridges, and the staff there annoyed me. I don't know what Mary sees in the place. You're the only one who can help me, Rose."

Rose almost couldn't resist his huge, dark eyes, and she suspected Sherlock knew that, too. But this was a semi-public place, as well as her place of work. People would talk.

"Sherlock, I work here."

"Exactly. That's the point."

"But I'm not in sales. I'd be stepping on people's toes."

Sherlock shrugged and reached for Rose's hand. "That's their problem for being incompetent. I only trust your opinion. That woman with halitosis was far too pushy."

Rose carefully extracted her hand from Sherlock's. "Look, I'll help you for a second, if only to direct you to the correct aisle. So what did you have in mind?"

"Nothing, Rose. Weren't you listening? I ducked in here on the off-chance that someone had invented a new, pointless household appliance that John and Mary didn't already have. I hate shopping, and since I've already spent..." Sherlock paused to check his watch. "...two hours and thirty-seven minutes browsing at Selfridges, I thought I may as well ruin the rest of my day and keep going. The thought of sharing my misery with you was the light at the end of the funnel."

"Tunnel."

"What?"

"Never mind."

Rose sighed deeply, and quickly scanned her surroundings for any co-workers that may be close enough to eavesdrop. Seeing that the sales staff were all preoccupied with the midday rush of customers, she moved closer to Sherlock.

Speaking in a low voice, she said, "Okay, we'll talk about it when I come over tonight. We'll check the online stores. You may as well go home now. Browsing is not good for your health."  _Or mine._

"We don't have time to order something online and get it delivered before the wedding."

"The wedding's four weeks away."

"You can't rely on people or postal services," Sherlock stated simply.

"Look, Sherlock, we'll browse online to get some ideas, then go in store to purchase. Or at least you can. Okay? That way you don't have to waste time wandering about. We can shop and cuddle at the same time."

A satisfied grin grew on Sherlock's face at the notion. Rose was a genius.

"Okay, I've got to get back to work," Rose bid Sherlock. She could see that it was fine to leave him now that he was in a better mood.

"Will you be going home first?" he asked.

"No, I'll have to go straight from here to the club. I'm on closing."

Sherlock furrowed his brow, and Rose knew why. They had already had a little chat about her continuing to work at the Rendezvous strip club now that the pair of them held little regard for the entire adult entertainment industry and its exploitation of women. Sherlock hadn't known how to broach the subject, but last Saturday night, when Rose arrived at Baker Street after working at the club, and she had settled in for her long soak in Sherlock's tub, the detective had made himself comfortable on the floor of his bathroom, and commenced with the words, "So... the strip club."

Rose knew what he had wanted to discuss, and admitted to him that she had been thinking about leaving her job as a cloakroom attendant for some time, especially after many discussions with her neighbour, Tonya Small.

Rose had plans to discuss a salary increase in her present position at the home entertainment store. She practically ran Roche's accounts section, with her counter-part, Gus, being next to useless. Even when she wasn't at work, the staff would ring her at home rather than ask anything tricky of Gus. She deserved to be paid a higher salary, surely. And then she could afford to resign from the Rendezvous.

"I'm working on it, Sherlock," Rose said quietly, in response to his expression. "These things take time."

Sherlock's face softened and he made to reach for Rose once more, but she took a step backward.

"Sorry I couldn't be of assistance," she said in a business-like manner when she spied Kyle, head of sales, striding their way. She turned on her heels and left an unhappy Consulting Detective behind.

As Rose made it to the back corridor, she turned to check if Sherlock had been able to leave the store unmolested by other sales staff. She saw him striding purposefully for the entrance, customers and staff parting for him as he went. Rose smiled to herself. He had that air about him; people would know not to harass him. Rose also hoped he wasn't upset with her.

Not wanting Sherlock to remain dejected for long, she quickly tapped away at her phone, before entering her office. She hoped that her message would give him a warm feeling to take with him all the way home.

_See you tonight. I love you._

* * *

Rose tucked her legs underneath her as she sipped her tea. Sundays in Baker Street had the potential to be blissful relaxing times with Sherlock Holmes, but as the wedding drew nearer, those moments were few and far between.

They  _were_  listening to classical music, and under normal circumstances that would also be conducive to having a relaxing time. They were taking a break from browsing online stores for a wedding present so Sherlock could create a compilation of classical waltzes for John and Mary to choose from for their wedding waltz. Sherlock had immediately dismissed John's choice of 'some nineties power ballad about a man and woman who don't actually love each other, or some rubbish'. He had insisted they learn to waltz and had spent a couple of afternoons teaching the reluctant doctor just how to do it properly. It turned out to be a bit embarrassing—for John at least—when Mrs Hudson walked in on them on one such occasion.

Rose also found the whole idea hysterical, but she didn't let Sherlock know that.

Still, the soothing music was continually interrupted by Sherlock remarking, "Nope, not that one," or "Yes, that's better than  _pop music_ ," then pausing the music to note the track on a piece of paper.

The inability of the wedding couple to decide on a more traditional piece of music, along with not being able to finding a suitable wedding present for them was sending Sherlock's stress levels through the roof. Now and then he would look Rose's way while he was listening to a track, but he seemed to stare, unseeing, at her. Rose couldn't figure out what was going through his mind.

When Rose drifted over to Sherlock's computer and sat down at the living room table to research unique wedding gifts, she noticed that Sherlock either pensively stared at the wedding planning wall above the sofa, or he'd again gaze in the direction of the chair she had vacated. John's chair. She noticed him dropping his eyes, then sighing, before changing the track on his iPod.

It was so obvious to her now. He hadn't been looking at her at all. His eyes were drawn to John's chair whenever he thought about the impending wedding and what that meant to him. Sherlock's continual need to plan John's wedding, and take over every decision that the wedding couple needed to make, his general disinterest in his work, more specifically, solving cases without the help of John Watson, were all signs that he was fearing what he thought was the end of an era. Sherlock was worried about his best friend getting married. He missed his old flat mate.

Rose left her spot at the table, picked up her empty tea cup from the side table next to John's chair, then crossed the room to retrieve Sherlock's cup.

"Would you like a top up?" she asked Sherlock.

"No," he replied, without looking up from his iPod screen.

Rose left him and headed toward the kitchen. She thought she would forgive him this little bit of rudeness under the circumstances. As she made herself another cup of tea, Rose formulated an idea. To put it into action, though, she was going to need outside help.

* * *

Rose alternately fiddled with her napkin and the acrylic holder that displayed the lunchtime specials in the middle of the table. Her gaze took in the cafe at large, the door and the street outside through the window. When Mary Morstan appeared in the doorway, Rose was relieved that she  _did_ recognise her after all. She had been worried that she wouldn't remember what the bride-to-be looked like due to the stress surrounding their first meeting.

Rose gave her a small wave, when she saw Mary quickly scanning the other patrons of the café. She stood up, feeling awkward about how she should greet someone who was a stranger to her for the most part, but someone who Sherlock had entrusted to keep Rose's darkest secret.

"Lovely to see you again, Rose," Mary said pleasantly. Mary leant in, softly brushing Rose's cheek with hers while she lightly held Rose's arms. Rose was grateful that the older woman had initiated the greeting, even if it was just an air kiss.

"Thanks for coming," Rose said as they both stood across from one another. "Would you like to order your tea or coffee first? I'm just waiting on a coffee."

Rose had surreptitiously obtained Mary's mobile number from Sherlock's phone contacts on Sunday night when the detective was taking a shower. She had phoned her new confidante during her morning tea break on Monday using her office phone, hoping like hell that Mary would answer. Rose thought she would stammer out a, "Sorry, wrong number," if John were to pick up Mary's phone for whatever reason.

Fortunately for Rose, Mary had answered her phone, and after Rose had stuttered, "Oh, hi Mary, it's Rose, Sherlock's... um..." she was relieved to have Mary put her out of her misery and instantly cut in with a friendly greeting. Without too much preamble, Rose was able to arrange to meet Mary at a café near the home entertainment store in the early afternoon.

When Mary returned to their table, Rose complimented the bride-to-be on their wedding preparation choices so far. They shared a laugh about Sherlock's efforts with the scale model of the venue, the selection of the bridesmaid dress fabric, and his arguments with John over the precise meaning behind each of the bible readings the bridal couple had chosen.

When their beverages arrived, it seemed to be a good time to end the wedding small talk. With Rose feeling slightly more comfortable in Mary's company, she began explaining the reason for calling her.

"I'm worried about how much time and emotional investment Sherlock is placing in the wedding preparations. I mean, don't get me wrong. You've all worked so hard to get this far. And it's all looking amazing."

"Neither John nor I have worked as hard as Sherlock," Mary remarked, as she added sugar to her tea cup. "So I can understand your concern."

Rose offered a tiny smile in gratitude before venturing, "It's just that he has almost everything organised, but he seems more frantic than ever. If he makes any more phone calls double-checking and triple-checking everyone else's preparations, then he's going to put noses out of joint and actually start losing the bookings that are already in place."

Mary leaned back in her chair thoughtfully, her tea cup poised in the air. "So what should we do about him, do you think?"

Rose was relieved that Mary was immediately on the same page as her, and hadn't dismissed her concerns out of hand.

"Distract him," Rose replied. "Get him busy with something else. I'm worried that everything will come to an abrupt end once the wedding's over. He needs to put some energy into his other interests, before your wedding, I think. He hardly ever reads his emails unless they're wedding-related, and I know a lot of them are potential cases."

Mary quirked an eyebrow in interest. "He's not working on any cases?"

"Not that I've seen. He did look at one the other day, after I mentioned how full his inbox was getting, and he wanted to give me an example of how pointless some of the cases were. It probably took him twenty minutes to get a hacker friend of his to scour the General Register Office's database for somebody's birth details for some reason, and he used that information to solve it without even leaving the flat. But nothing since."

"So he's not doing any running around, putting his life in danger, that kind of thing?"

Rose shook her head, then added, "Not that I want him to work on those sort of cases."

"Oh, but he usually thrives on that kind of thing," Mary commented, a daredevil glint in her eye as she leant forward in her seat. "That's what we need for him, Rose."

"I'm sure it is," Rose agreed unconvincingly. However Mary's comment opened up an opportunity for Rose to bring the conversation around to the real favour she wanted of Mary Morstan. "But not without the support of a partner. You know Mary, I think he... I think he actually misses John. He probably equates working on those types of cases with having John by his side. Perhaps if you... No, sorry, that's thoughtless of me. You don't want Sherlock to take up all of John's time right now."

"No, no. God no, just the opposite," gushed Mary a little too enthusiastically. "John needs to get out and about himself. Look, Rose, if you want me to push John into encouraging Sherlock to work on cases again, I'll definitely oblige."

"You will?"

"Leave it with me," Mary said with a tiny wink. "We'll be at Baker Street later in the week." As she spoke, she drew out her phone and tapped away at it. "Sherlock set up an alarm on my phone telling me when the RSVP date is. Ah," she exclaimed as she made note of an entry in her calendar. "Since that date's tomorrow, he'll be anxious to finalise the seating plans for the reception."

"Yes, he is," Rose commented, smiling to herself at the memory of Sherlock ranting and pacing to the tune of, _We need those RSVPs! Don't people know there are so many ways to arrange a group of over 60 people across seven tables. Have they no respect for deadlines?_

"So I'll drag John along this time," Mary added. "He can get Sherlock looking at some of these cases."

"Thank you," Rose said, breathing out in relief and reaching for her coffee.

"Oh bugger," Mary exclaimed, frowning at her phone. "I'm going to have to switch the dates of the Rehearsal Dinner and the Stag night around. I forgot about that."

"Good luck telling Sherlock," Rose quipped, a tiny smile forming on her lips before sipping her coffee.

"Uh, yeah, thanks," Mary replied distractedly.

There was silence while Mary tapped away at her phone, then she placed it on the table beside her. "Coward's way out," she confessed, smiling sheepishly. "I've texted him."

"So the Stag night is...?"

"Not this weekend, but the next. And the Rehearsal Dinner will be the weekend after that. Makes more sense to have it the week before the wedding anyway."

"So is John okay with the format of the Stag night?"

"Oh yeah, no problems at all," Mary replied. "Relieved actually. Initially he was surprised that Sherlock had actually thought about it at all. But he's glad that Sherlock and his ex-army mates won't have to mix. I think John's quite chuffed that Sherlock's making the effort."

"He has put a lot of thought into it," Rose remarked, smiling ruefully when she reflected on Sherlock's turmoil at the time they had discussed his concerns.

"So, speaking of stags and things," Mary began, with a warm smile gracing her features. "I know you don't want to come to our wedding as Sherlock's plus one, but I would love it if you'd come to my Hen night."

Mary's invitation caught Rose by surprise, and she was sure she was too slow in masking her apprehension.

"I... um... thank you. That's very sweet of you to include me."

Mary reached out and gently patted Rose's hand. "Please think about. Don't feel as though you have to give me an answer now. I know you want to keep your relationship with Sherlock behind closed doors, but there's no reason why you can't be at my Hen night as a friend of mine."

"When is it?" Rose asked, trying to quell the rising panic she felt whenever there was a chance other people could discover her connection to Sherlock.

"This Saturday night."

The tightness in Rose's chest lessened a little at the realisation that she had an excuse of sorts. "I work on Saturday nights," she said apologetically.

"Well, think about it. If you want to come and can get the night off, that would be wonderful. You're more than welcome. Unfortunately it has to be this weekend because it's one of these rare occasions that Janine is actually in London."

"Janine?"

"My Maid of Honour. She's such a wag. You'll like her. So... where do you work?"

Rose gripped her coffee mug just a tad tighter. "At the..." She paused to clear her throat. "The Rendezvous."

"Oh?" Mary prompted her, with a slight tilt of her head.

"A gentlemen's club. It's in Shoreditch."

Mary's mouth formed a small 'o' and Rose could just imagine Mary's thought processes as her mind made incorrect conclusions about Rose's current occupation, based on her previous association with Sherlock Holmes.

"As a cloakroom attendant," Rose added, smiling mischievously. "I check coats. And the occasional hat. Sometimes scarves and... once an inflatable pig. You don't want to know."

Mary's face brightened, and then she commenced chuckling, prompting Rose to do the same.

"I'm sure you could tell some stories," Mary laughed, her eyes twinkling with a new affection for the younger woman.

"Yes. I believe I could."

* * *

Sherlock exhaled and studied his cigarette smoke as it dissipated through the air and away from the balcony. It had been months since his last smoking session on Rose's balcony. He realised he'd missed this routine, kicking back, with his legs perched up on the railing, waiting for Rose to return home.

It was early evening, mid-week, and he realised he and Rose hadn't engaged in a meaningful conversation at all this week so far. He had arrived at her flat a little after midnight on both Monday and Tuesday nights, because he'd only decided in the afternoons to alleviate his boredom by hanging out at Bart's. And the pathology labs were largely unoccupied late into the night.

He entered Rose's flat to find her already in bed asleep on both those occasions. He resisted the urge to wake her up, but when she rolled over and cuddled into him, primitive urges took over until they were both wide-awake and feeding their respective hungers until both were sated.

This afternoon, Sherlock avoided the pull of the pathology labs, and opted to get to work changing some of the light-bulbs in his little hidey-hole, the empty house, across from Rose's block of flats. He fixed some shelving to the wall that had come away and wondered what experiments he could set up and leave there undisturbed. He remained at number 23 Leinster Gardens until closer to the time that Rose was due home.

When he heard the click of the front door opening, he wondered if Rose would deduce his presence outside by noticing that he had left the sliding door to the balcony open a crack. He had done so in order to hear Rose's arrival.

He was not disappointed.

A minute or so later, Rose opened the door wider and stepped out.

"Hello," she said, a slight shiver in her voice since she had already discarded her coat when she had arrived home.

Sherlock leant his head back onto the chair, allowing Rose to bend down and kiss his forehead.

"This is new," she remarked, before turning to head back inside. "At least, a new old habit," she added after pausing in the doorway. "When did you take up smoking again?"

"I am an addict," Sherlock replied, taking a drag on his cigarette as if to emphasise the fact. "I merely alternate my methods of nicotine intake."

"Okay, fine. I'm just going to close the door properly."

Rose disappeared inside, leaving Sherlock to feel disappointed that she not only hadn't joined him, but her hello greeting wasn't as enthusiastic as it usually was. Of course, the only time they had ever shared a moment outside, was when Rose was toking. He was glad she hadn't indulged in that habit in recent months. It was also an indicator that he was a positive influence in her life. She had little to worry about, and therefore no need to get stoned.

Sherlock took a couple more drags of his cigarette, then discarded the butt in the ashtray on the table beside him. He drifted back inside, to find that Rose had changed into a tracksuit. He narrowed his eyes at her. This was different; he didn't like different.

"What are you doing?" he asked, when he spied Rose depositing her key to the flat into a pocket.

"I'm going for a walk. Won't be long."

"Since when?"

Rose smiled at Sherlock's puzzled expression. She crossed the room, stopping in front of him, and replied, "Since ages ago. You're never here this early. Sometimes I go walking with Tonya when she takes her dogs out." She gave Sherlock a quick peck on the cheek, not noticing his scowl at the mention of Tonya Small's name. She turned away from him and headed over to the front door. She called back, "Why don't you busy yourself cleaning up all those serviettes that are all over my bedroom floor? Looks like a tissue factory exploded in there."

Sherlock brooded as he removed his coat. This wasn't going to be an evening of  _fun._

Sherlock's mood darkened the longer Rose was away. He was mentally listing all of the things The Clarence House Cannibal could be telling Rose about him and their relationship as he shoved the used serviettes into a small plastic shopping bag. He cleared Rose's bedroom floor, and by the time Rose returned from her 'walk,' she found the detective stretched out along her sofa, remote control in hand, and scowling at the evening news.

"Not doing any work then?" Rose asked, as she breezed by to retrieve a drink of water from the kitchen sink.

"I was waiting for you," he answered unemotionally.

"For what?"

Sherlock swung his legs from the sofa and sat up. "So we can narrow the choice for the serviette design." He indicated a new, unopened packet of one hundred paper napkins on the coffee table in front of him.

Rose was silent as she slowly drank her water. Then she called to Sherlock that she was just going to take a shower first and asked if he was going to eat dinner with her tonight if they ordered in. Without waiting for his answer, Rose disappeared into the bathroom. Sherlock turned up the volume on the news broadcast when he heard the familiar sounds of Mr Scanlan masturbating in the flat above.

When Rose returned from the shower, she had to yell at the detective to turn the volume down.

"What the hell are you doing?" she asked in alarm.

"Couldn't you hear that?"

"Hear what? I couldn't hear anything except for the news. For God's sake, I'm going to get complaints about that tomorrow morning."

"How could you not hear him moaning and carrying on?"

"Who?"

"Scanlan. Well obviously he's finished _now._ Takes him about six minutes, give or take."

"What? …Oh," Rose said in shock realisation, when she remembered that Sherlock had informed her all those months ago—soon after he came back to life—that her neighbour often took care of himself during the evening news.

"Well..." she began, at a loss for words. "Are you sure that's what he's doing?"

"What else could it be. Now are we going to do this," he said, pulling the packet of serviettes toward him, "or are you going to be busy emailing losers about girls who do or don't like them or some other pointless nonsense?"

Rose frowned at Sherlock's very obvious dig at her clients. "That's not very sensitive of you."

"Sensitive?" Sherlock repeated in distaste. "Since when is that news to you?"

Rose heaved a sigh in resignation. So they were going to have one of  _those_  nights. Her preference was to hide away in her bedroom and tend to her clients' needs in private, rather than put up with Sherlock's huffing and puffing all evening. But she had vowed to herself to give him a little leeway in regard to his rudeness, at least until the wedding was over. And she wasn't expected to start her crisis centre work until 10pm anyway. Surely she had enough energy left to indulge him until then?

Rose sank to the sofa beside Sherlock and ignored his remark.

"So," she began. "How many designs have we got left. Four, wasn't it?"

"Yes, three that were mine, and one that was some rubbish you made up."

"A swan," Rose muttered, her cheeks burning as she tugged a serviette out of the packet. "And I found it on YouTube. The same place you copied all of yours from."

They folded in silence, with Sherlock completing a tulip, a rabbit, and the Sydney Opera House. In that time, Rose finished her swan.

"What do you think?" Sherlock asked, gesturing toward his own serviette collection. "We can narrow it down to two, and give John and Mary the choice. Well, just Mary. John will probably wipe his nose with one of them."

"Fantastic. I really like the bunny. What do you think of my swan?"

Sherlock wrinkled his nose in distaste. "Are you sure that's a swan? It looks like a duck. Or if you hold it this way," he said, tilting Rose's creation on a ninety degree angle, "it could be a man kneeling down, bowing his head as he waits for his impending execution."

"Only you would see that."

"So we'll have the duck—"

"Swan."

"—and my Sydney Opera House as the final designs. Mary can be the judge. Winner gets to have their orgasm last."

Rose's head spun upon hearing Sherlock's last statement. "W-what?" she stammered.

"The winner gets to have their orgasm last. What's so hard to understand about that?"

When Rose furrowed her brow, Sherlock rolled his eyes at having to give an explanation.

"When we have sex, some of the time we come within seconds of each other, and that's great. But on those other occasions, wouldn't you rather roll over and go to sleep after your climax, rather than have to deal with the other person? That's my preference."

"Deal with? That's... Sherlock, you're... just.. " Rose spluttered. Finally she said, "No. No, I wouldn't. Because I care about you and your pleasure at that particular point in time."

"Well, I think you're lying," the detective said rather calmly. "And that's probably because you've had sex thousands of times during which you would deny your own pleasure. Most people would rather roll over, and... Where are you going?"

Rose had abruptly stood, bashing her knee on the coffee table as she did so, also making a casualty out of her origami bird. It took a swan dive to the ground, as she cursed heavily and hobbled over toward kitchen.

"Are you all right?" Sherlock asked, not used to hearing Rose swearing like a trooper over such a small thing as a bump on the knee.

"Yes!" she exclaimed, doubling over as she rubbed her knee. "Actually, no," she added, after straightening up. Her face was flushed, and her eyes swam with tears. "I could probably put up with you insinuating that I've fucked hundreds of different men; that's a fair call. I've never even estimated. I was a fucking whore for a few years after all. And some of my crisis centre clients are probably attention-seeking losers who should really get a life. How could I tell the difference? I'm a bit of a failure as a therapist, as it turns out. And yes, drown out the fucking wanker upstairs all you want without apologising for turning up the telly full volume, by all means, but that..." Rose said, with a slight tremor in her voice and gesturing in the direction of the coffee table, "...that is a  _fucking swan_. I perfected it. I went through fourteen fucking paper napkins to perfect it on Friday. It's a swan, Sherlock, so take your Sydney Opera House, and your fucking insensitive ill-mannered selfish orgasm, and piss off home. I've had enough."

Rose turned abruptly, and swiftly disappeared into her bedroom, leaving a slightly stunned Consulting Detective behind.

.

Sorry about the abrupt ending, but the chapter got too long and I'm trying to keep these chapters to a reasonable size in contrast to my other romance fic (Do check out  _The Mutual Suicide Pact_ if you want to indulge in a longer story!). I've split this chapter into two, which means the next one is almost done. Let me know when you want it! Getting close to the wedding now. We're three weeks away (in a fictional sense).


	37. Rubbish at Wedding Planning

**Chapter 37 - Rubbish at Wedding Planning**

Sherlock slowly rose from the sofa, his head buzzing with the last echoes of Rose's rant.

What had just happened then?

Sherlock was confused. Was she upset about the swan, and not his comment about having sex a thousand times? Was she fine with him ridiculing her clients, and having the TV on at such an ear-splitting volume? Is that what her little speech meant?

He bent down and retrieved the duck-swan. It wasn't bad for her fifteenth effort, he thought. Perhaps if its neck was slightly longer it would look less duck-like. Surely Rose could see that? Perhaps he should tell her. A bit of constructive criticism never hurt anyone.

Sherlock confidently strode toward Rose's bedroom.

_Ill-mannered selfish orgasm. What was that about? How can an orgasm be ill-mannered?_

Finding Rose's bedroom door shut, Sherlock gently knocked.

" _Go away!_ "

He tried the door handle anyway. If Rose had been at all serious about wanting him to leave her alone, she would've locked the door. Obvious.

"Rose... I... er..."

Sherlock paused in the doorway. The sight of Rose lying on her side under the covers, with tear-stained eyes, reminded him of the time she had shut him out of her life because she had been distraught about her previous occupation as a prostitute. Was she going to do that again?

Every muscle in Sherlock's body suddenly went rigid, and his throat began to constrict.

Rose rolled over onto her back, then pulled herself up to a sitting position against the headboard. Her gazed dropped to the object hanging loosely in Sherlock's hand.

"You think I'm upset about the swan?" she said, her voice sounding a little bit strained.

Sherlock momentarily forgot he was holding the napkin. But here was a clue, he thought. She wasn't upset about the stupid thing.  _The swan was a red herring!_

Sherlock shook his head imperceptibly, and forced himself to move his legs so he could enter the bedroom.

"No, of course not," he said in a low voice, shoving the napkin into his pocket. "You're upset about my  _ill-mannered orgasm._ "

"What?"

"And me reminding you that you've had sex way more times than I have, and you didn't enjoy it on every occasion."

"Sherlock."

"And your clients..."

"Sherlock, just stop it. Stop trying to guess."

"I never guess."

When Rose sighed deeply, and lowered her gaze to the bed, Sherlock's gut twisted involuntarily.

 _She_ is  _disappointed in me,_ he thought.  _But about what?_

Rose looked up at Sherlock once more.

"That's just it, Sherlock. You didn't think to ask."

Sherlock's shoulders drooped. He didn't like the way Rose was looking at him. He didn't ask? Why should he ask? He was good at deducing... wasn't he?

When he remained silent, Rose continued. "You didn't think to ask why I'm a bit out of sorts this evening, and the reason you didn't wonder, is because everything is wrapped up in that fucking wedding. That's all you can think about. And even when you've got everything organised within an inch of its life, you manage to find some other fucking drama to go with it."

Sherlock felt his skin prickle. He had no idea that his endeavours seemed so ridiculous to Rose. He didn't know how to immediately react to her words, and he dropped his gaze to the bed. Rose brought her knees up under the covers, and hugged them.

"I don't want to hear any more about the wedding tonight," she continued. When Sherlock's eyes met hers again, she added, "I thought I could cope, but I just... can't. You've done so much for John, and I don't think he appreciates just how much time you're spending worrying about it all. I wish you would stop, because I don't need that on top of everything else."

"So, why..." Sherlock began. He was at a complete loss as to what was expected of him. Was it too late for him to ask what was upsetting Rose, or was it just his attention to the wedding details that was the problem? And what was so wrong with being thorough anyway? The world was full of incompetent morons, and he was finding more of them as the days went by.

"I don't want to talk about it," Rose replied, with an air of finality in her tone.

"Jesus Christ," Sherlock muttered under his breath, dropping his head, before turning away from her. He paused a moment, and reconsidered his decision to leave the room. She wasn't the only one getting a bit pissed off. "You know, I really detest riddles," Sherlock said to her. "Hate them, in fact. And despite Jim Moriarty—may he not be resting in peace—despite the criminal mastermind strongly suggesting I learn to like them, I don't have to. So this," he said, flippantly waving a hand in Rose's direction, "I find extremely irritating. This little mysterious episode of yours."

Rose sat up straighter, her expression hardening even though her eyes were glistening with tears.

"Just leave," she said quietly.

Sherlock drew in a steadying breath. "No," he said. "I'm not leaving. You're not banning me from seeing you again."

"I'm not banning you... Sherlock, just leave my  _bedroom_. Leave me in peace to wallow in self-pity."

"Why?" Sherlock asked, fixing Rose with a challenging glare.

"Because," Rose began, before faltering under his harsh gaze. "Because it's... it's just stupid."

Sherlock's expression softened and his heart sank at seeing the turmoil on Rose's face. He lowered himself to the bed, sitting down next to Rose's legs. Extending an arm to her other side, he leant over her.

"Rose," he said warmly, "I'm a ridiculous man, but I'm redeemed every time you utter those three words to me. You told me why I deserved your love, so don't push me away now. Not when I'm capable of so much more."

Rose's eyes pooled with tears, and she attempted to brush them away. She sniffed, then took a moment to compose herself. Her guilt for pushing Sherlock away again eclipsed her own need to wallow.

"I asked for a promotion today," she began, giving Sherlock a wan smile. "I really thought I deserved it, but clearly not based on the very negative response I was given."

"The promotion you wanted, which would give you the chance to resign from the Rendezvous?"

"Yes," Rose replied, sniffing again. "She gave me a flat  _No—_ the store manager _—_ but thanked me for drawing attention to the fact that the accounts department no longer had a senior accounts clerk. Gus, the fat fuck, who has sat his fat fucking arse in that same fucking seat for five fucking years has tenure over me. Tenure! He has seniority because he can barely move his arse out of that chair to ever think about getting a job elsewhere. And not only that, she says he conveys a more professional image of the accounts department at Roches, because his counterpart, Rosemarie fucking skanky Sulford, is busy getting her kit off every weekend when she checks coats and sucks cock at a strip joint in Shoreditch. Not quite the background the Store Manager wants a prospective Accounts Manager at Roches Home Entertainment to have."

"But you don't—"

"I told her ages ago that I worked there, so she'd understand if I had to close the store then hightail it to my second job. She'd be less likely to ask if I could stay back an extra hour or two to dick around with the accounts if she knew I had somewhere else to be. I didn't think she'd hold it against me."

"But she accused you of  _sucking cock_?" Sherlock asked, slightly horrified.

In spite of her situation, Rose found herself smiling at hearing Sherlock's use of the term. "She didn't use those words exactly. I've always had the impression that she thinks my job as a cloakroom attendant is just a cover for actually stripping."

"Yes, but you're only stripping the club patrons of their coats."

Rose smiled ruefully in response, then she sighed deeply and reached for Sherlock's arm. Rubbing it affectionately, she said, "Well, that was my shitty afternoon. Usually I can brush off those interesting observations of yours; I'm getting used to it. I can even manage to laugh sometimes. But tonight I'm feeling a bit delicate, and right now I just want to curl up into a ball and feel sorry for myself."

"You don't need to feel sorry for yourself. What you need is someone to shower you with affection." Sherlock's mouth curved into a smile. "And I know just the man for the job." He leant forward and lightly kissed Rose on the forehead. Keeping close, he murmured, "First I'm going to apologise for my thoughtless comments, before I order you some dinner from that place around the corner that you like—the place run by those idiots who can't manage to deliver. I'll go pick it up and when I get back, I'll bring you your computer, so you can work in here without listening to my clever thoughts about the world. I'll bring you your cup of tea once you start work, and then I'll just watch telly, and fall asleep on the sofa. And when you finish at 2am, you can kiss me awake, after which we'll come back to the bedroom and make love—not a selfish orgasm in sight. How does that sound?"

Rose's face had slowly brightened with Sherlock outlining his evening's agenda, and she hiccupped one final sob, before pulling Sherlock down to deliver a tender kiss. When they drew apart, Rose hastily wiped away her remaining tears, prompting Sherlock to reach into his pocket and offer her a crumpled serviette in the shape of a duck.

The evening panned out just as Sherlock had promised. And when Rose left her bedroom at 1:52am in order to kiss her sleeping prince awake, she found him fast asleep on the sofa, while all about him on the floor, coffee table and the armchair were ninety-six white, paper napkin roses.

* * *

Rose undertook her duties diligently, and whenever something complicated was asked of her, she referred the request to her  _superior_ , Gus. She'd had enough of performing above and beyond what was expected of her.

Roches could go fuck itself.

That afternoon, Rose took Tonya's puppies for a walk herself. Ms Small was a bit under the weather, so Rose volunteered to take the dogs out, and in exchange, Tonya offered to cook Rose a meal. It didn't matter whether Sherlock would be around or not; he most likely wouldn't need to eat, Rose reasoned, and Tonya didn't expect Rose to actually dine with her. She could return the crockery later.

Rose was thankful that at least two meals this week had been provided by others—the meal Sherlock ordered last night, and Tonya's home-cooked chicken soup tonight. Rose was going to have to live a lot more frugally after she finished up at the strip club. Despite receiving no promotion or pay rise from the home entertainment store, she was still going to go ahead and resign from her employment at the strip club. Morally, it was the right thing to do, and her presence there was causing her more problems elsewhere in her life. She would give two week's notice.

Sherlock, however, didn't arrive at Leinster Gardens until well after 11pm, when Rose was seated at her dining table, messaging a young girl who had been the victim of cyber-bullying on social media.

Rose looked up briefly from her screen, and smiled in acknowledgement of Sherlock's arrival. The detective shrugged out of his coat and hung it by the door.

"Sorry I'm late," he said, crossing the room to kiss Rose on the top of her head. "I had a case."

"Really?" Rose asked, pausing her typing to look up at Sherlock in interest.

Sherlock continued on to the kitchen. He could do with a cuppa after the long day he had experienced.

"I've just come back from the hospital," he said, without turning around as he filled the kettle.

"The hospital? Is everything all right?"

Sherlock turned around and leant against the kitchen bench, crossing one leg over the other as he faced Rose. "One of the Royal Household Guard—stabbed while he was taking a shower. No murder weapon, no motive, no suspects. A perfect locked room mystery, and I haven't a clue."

"Goodness! So what—"

"Finish your work," Sherlock said, gesturing toward Rose's computer. "I can tell you all the details afterwards. Tea?"

Rose appreciated Sherlock understanding that she needed to keep corresponding with her client.

He quietly made their cups of tea, then drifted into the living room. Instead of stretching out along the sofa, remote control in hand, he sat upright, and preceded to tap away on his phone. He had a lot of research to do in terms of locked room mysteries, and sharp force traumas using long, slender weapons. The case was both intriguing and irritating.

Sherlock changed his position several times during the course of the night. He'd stand up and pace, mutter to himself, sink down onto the armchair, stand up again while he stared at his tiny screen, and then he'd pace some more. Finally, he grabbed his coat and headed out to the balcony for a smoke.

When he re-entered the flat, he found Rose slumped over the table, resting her head on her arms.

"Are you 'right?" he asked, shedding his coat at the same time that he approached her.

"Tired," she replied without raising her head.

Sherlock draped his coat over a dining chair. He leant over Rose, rubbed her arm and murmured, "Bed," before kissing her on the temple.

"Cigarettes," she muttered, having smelled the residual smoke about Sherlock's person.

Sherlock picked up Rose's computer and disconnected it from its charger.

"Come on," he bid her, tucking the laptop under his arm. "I'll prod you awake if your little message thingy beeps. I've got research to do and I need a bigger screen."

They retired to Rose's bedroom, with Rose crawling underneath the quilt after sleepily stripping down to her underwear and murmuring, "I'll just close my eyes for a minute." Sherlock shed his own clothes, opting to dress in his pyjamas since he planned on staying awake a lot longer.

He sat up in bed, leaning against a couple of pillows propped up for support and balanced Rose's computer on his lap. The issue of Private Bainbridge's stalker swam around his mind. Surely there'd be something caught on CCTV cameras, if only he could locate all of the footage taken whenever Bainbridge was on duty. Sherlock and John had spent hours at the hospital waiting to question the unfortunate Royal Household Guard to no avail. Bainbridge's stab wound to the abdomen had caused extensive damage to his liver, and he was in a critical condition as a result.

The army and police had pretty much shut Sherlock out of investigations. Bainbridge was his client, after all, and the case he was  _supposed_ to be investigating was the man's stalker, not his attacker. But surely they were one and the same?

When Rose's message centre pinged with an active client, Sherlock heaved a sigh in irritation. He looked over to Rose, noting that she was heavily asleep. As it was a quarter to two, it seemed such a shame to wake her. Surely he could just...

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the caller ID— _RiverSPond99._ He typed,  _Hi,_ as he had seen Rose do on numerous occasions, then waited while her client took some time to type the next message. When Sherlock read the rather detailed account, he rolled his eyes, then shut the laptop lid. Clearly he was not equipped for this type of work if his first instinct was to type a rather scathing reply.

He deposited the computer onto his bedside table, then turned to gently rub Rose's back. When she stirred, Sherlock informed her that she had a client.

"What time is it?" she asked, only half opening her eyes.

"Just before two."

"That's not fair," she murmured in resignation.

Rose threw back the quilt, and stood, before stretching and making to leave the room.

"Your computer's here," Sherlock called after her.

"I know. Just going to splash my face with water," she replied.

As Rose disappeared into the darkened flat, Sherlock decided he needed another hit of nicotine. He was getting nowhere. By time he returned from the balcony, Rose was just placing her computer on her bedside table and looking quite awake.

"All done," she said. "How did you go? Get it all solved?"

"I can't really do anything until I can question Private Bainbridge."

"What happened, exactly?" Rose asked as Sherlock slid underneath the quilt beside her.

He started recounting the details of the attempted murder in Wellington Barracks, and John's role in saving the life of Bainbridge.

"I was lost in the mystery of the crime," Sherlock said in reflection. "While John was, as ever, concerned for the victim."

"Sounds like you work well together then," Rose said, a hint of a smile gracing her lips, as she rested her chin on Sherlock's chest and looked up at him.

Sherlock continued gazing at the ceiling while he automatically curled his arm around Rose and rubbed her back.

"Well I had to get John out of the flat this morning," he added, before turning his eyes to Rose. "He was going half-mad with all these decisions he's supposedly had to make for the wedding. Distracting him with a case was the least I could do for his mental health."

Rose's smile broadened, and she stretched up to plant a kiss on Sherlock's cheek.

"He's so lucky having such a thoughtful friend," she whispered. "Have you finished all of your decision-making then?"

"Just waiting for a couple more RSVPs, then Mary and I can finalise the seating arrangements for the reception."

"And did she choose a serviette?"

Sherlock studied Rose's eyes, which were glistening with interest. A sly smile grew on his own face as he held her close.

"Yes," he replied, the timbre of his voice taking a rough edge. "She did."

"Which one did she choose?"

Sherlock thought about the rest of the night and the different ways he could distract himself from the frustrating case for a time. For that, he would need a willing and enthusiastic partner.

"She chose the swan," he lied.

* * *

"Then you can read them straight from the cards," Rose began, pausing in her endeavours to transfer emails that Sherlock had received onto index cards.

"So why not call them emails?" Sherlock huffed from the vicinity of his couch.

"Because it's a wedding tradition. Everyone knows what telegrams are."

"Except everyone's perpetuating an archaic method of communication, passing it down from one generation to the next like some fossilised relay baton," Sherlock muttered.

He was exhausted. Having Rose type up an outline for his Best Man's speech, then having to explain to her why every single element was pointless, was doing his head in. He told her repeatedly that he could store the speech in his mind, but Rose had insisted on the prompt cards.

"So after the telegrams," she said, referring to a document she had been updating on Sherlock's computer, "You can say some nice things about John, perhaps how honoured you are to have been chosen as his best man."

Sherlock sighed loudly, then turned to face the back of the couch, rearranging his dressing gown around him.

"And then offer congratulations on his marriage to Mary, and say a few words about how wonderful the wedding has been so far."

In a sudden burst of activity, Sherlock turned around, then sat up. Planting his feet on the ground, he bowed his head and vigorously ruffled his hair.

"Rubbish," he said on an exhale.

"Which is why you're going to read from the cards," Rose said, turning to him with a smile. "To stop yourself saying whatever immediately comes to mind."

"A wedding is—"

"Not to be discussed by Sherlock Holmes on this occasion."

Sherlock tutted and rose from the couch.

"I need tea," he murmured. "Or something seven percent stronger."

"And then talk about John," Rose continued, ignoring Sherlock's mini-sulk. "Here would be a good place to include something special about your relationship with him... so anecdotes, perhaps?" she called to the detective as he disappeared into the kitchen.

Sherlock reappeared behind John's chair, with a mischievous glint in his eye.

"How about that amusing little anecdote about John snogging with some woman in Baker Street, finally managing to entice her up to his bedroom for a romp in the sack, and then subsequently passing out? What makes the story even more hilarious is when he learns she's a prostitute the next morning."

"Yes, very funny."

Sherlock disappeared once more into the kitchen, as Rose continued writing his prompt cards.

This particular Sunday had started out promising. They had slept in, after their usual extra-late Saturday night routine where Rose would return from the Rendezvous, and relax in Sherlock's tub. This time, she had been absorbed in her own morose thoughts, having given the strip club notice of her resignation. She would finish up next weekend.

When they eventually finished their early morning snuggle, Sherlock practically leapt from his bed, driven by a new enthusiasm to teach Rose to waltz  _while_  he was still compiling a selection of traditional wedding waltzes for the newly married couples' first dance.

Rose reluctantly agreed, with Sherlock teaching her the basic steps while he merely counted 1-2-3 during his instruction. When they graduated to Sherlock humming a tune, Rose suggested he choose that piece as one of the selections to give John and Mary because it sounded nice, whereupon Sherlock informed her that he'd made it up on the spot. He then froze, as an idea seized his mind. He completely abandoned his attempt at teaching Rose how to dance—something she was immediately thankful for—and grabbed a sheet of manuscript paper, and began making scribbles all over it.

Rose had seated herself in front of Sherlock's laptop, and, picking up the  _How To_  book she had purchased for him, she decided to help the Best Man get some ideas down for his speech. Rose made the mistake of asking Sherlock one tiny question, after which he threw down his pencil in disgust, and flopped onto the couch, claiming his creative flow had been disrupted.

Rose immediately felt sorry, and tried to apologise, after which Sherlock asked her to demonstrate just how sorry she was. Rose left a trail of clothing all the way to Sherlock's bedroom, and challenged Sherlock to find out for himself how apologetic she was.

Once their midday romp had concluded, Rose told Sherlock she would stay in bed to write his Best Man speech if he wanted to continue composing in peace in the living room. Sherlock said the muse had well and truly left him, and he would take it up again sometime during the week.

"Let's get that abominable speech out of the way," he had suggested to her, and then had taken up residence on his couch once more.

By the late afternoon, Rose had sketched out some semblance of a speech, and had completed Sherlock's index cards. She formed a separate pile for the telegrams, and instructed him to add to them as new emails arrived in the three weeks leading up to the wedding.

Sherlock had phoned the hospital, under the guise of Major Reed, to find out the latest on Bainbridge's condition. He was disappointed to find that the Private was still unconscious. He sent John a text, informing him of this latest update.

Rose settled into John's armchair by the fire to read a hefty tome she had found on Sherlock's bookshelf about the neuroscience surrounding the mind of a serial killer, thinking that it may help with her future studies of Forensic Psychology. Sherlock sat across from her in his chair, tapping away on his computer before closing the lid with a satisfied sigh.

"That's the last one," he said, placing his laptop on the floor beside his chair.

"Which one is that?"

"The Hound and Mortar."

"Mmm," Rose responded, frowning.

"What?"

"It's around the corner from the Rendezvous. It's a bit rough on a Saturday night, but you should be fine as long as you stay out of the beer garden, I guess."

"Then we'll be fine," Sherlock remarked, plastering a fake smile across his face. "A rather sedate tour of London's wide and varied pub scene."

"Did you really find a corpse near the club?"

"In an alleyway, cut up into little bags dumped in a skip bin. It's a wonder you hadn't heard of it."

Rose placed the book onto a nearby sidetable, and stood up from her chair, stretching. "Way before my time. Sounds like it will be a lovely evening for the two of you then. Next Saturday?"

"Yes," Sherlock replied, outstretching a hand to invite Rose in for their new method of cuddling—in his armchair by the fire.

"That will be my last night at the club as well," Rose said, making herself comfortable in Sherlock's lap as he banded his arms around her. " _Star Wars_  Day."

"What?"

Rose couldn't resist planting a soft kiss on the underside of Sherlock's jaw. She snuggled in closer. He felt so warm and cuddly.

"You know,  _Star Wars_  Day," she repeated, looking up at him. "The 4th of May, or the way Americans say it makes more sense—May the 4th."

Sherlock furrowed his brow in response. "Nope. I don't understand."

"May the 4th," Rose said again. "May the force...?"

Sherlock raised his eyebrows, indicating non-comprehension.

"May the force... be... with... you."

"What force?" Sherlock asked through narrow eyes.

A small laughed escaped Rose, and she threaded her fingers through Sherlock's curls.

"Never mind," she said, her eyes twinkling with affection. "It's from a movie franchise. One of the computer geeks at the entertainment store mentioned it. He's throwing a party for his geeky friends."

"For what?"

"For  _Star Wars_  Day. Don't worry about it. I bet you're more of a Trekkie anyway," Rose added, a smile playing on her lips.

"I'm sure you're mocking me in some way," Sherlock said, lowering his voice and returning Rose's affections by brushing his lips against the soft skin behind her ear.

" _Star Trek_ ," she sighed, shivering beneath Sherlock's electrifying touch.

He drew back and tilted his head to one side. "I know that name."

"You do?" Rose asked, arching an eyebrow in amusement.

"Yes," Sherlock said, his expression barely masking his disdain. "John played a movie trailer on YouTube some time ago. His enthusiasm far overshadowed whatever he was trying to show me on the screen—some character he said reminded him of me."

Rose burst into laughter at the thought of Sherlock watching a  _Star Trek_  trailer while John Watson enthusiastically pointed at the main antagonist and tried to convince Sherlock of their similarities. Sherlock regarded Rose with a stony expression while she tried to stifle her laughter.

After a moment or two, he added, "I couldn't see it. The man had the personality of a traffic light."

This comment brought a fresh round of giggling from Rose, and Sherlock bided his time by raising his eyes to the ceiling then brushing away imaginary fluff from the arm of his chair.

"Have you quite finished?" he asked Rose, straight-faced.

"I'm sorry," Rose managed to say, her eyes still moist from laughter. "No, you're nothing like him. He's definitely..." Rose pressed her palm flat against Sherlock's chest. "More solid," she finished.

"Solid?" Sherlock queried.

"Well, you know... built."

"I'm sure you're making up words now."

"Except," Rose began, dropping her eyes to Sherlock's shirt. "When you returned to London, you were sort of... bulkier."

"I was fat?"

"No! Solid. Muscle-y," she said, curving her hand around one of Sherlock's biceps. "Well, at least your shirts were a bit... snugger. Must've been all that outdoor exercise you were getting when you were abroad."

Sherlock tutted and rolled his eyes. "Your observations skills are poor at best, Rose. My brother's people had to buy me an entire new wardrobe because Mrs Hudson got rid of my things. I'm sure every shirt they purchased was one or two sizes too small."

"I'm sure they were," Rose responded, smiling agreeably at Sherlock. The images of Sherlock's bare chest in early November last year were quite fresh in her mind. There was nothing wrong with her observational skills. She could still feel the hardness of his chest beneath her touch. He was still quite firm now, but his lack of eating had him slim down quite a bit in the months he'd been back.

"So where were we?" she asked, lowering her gaze to Sherlock's full lips before returning her focus on his steel grey eyes. He was looking at her with a curious expression in his eyes.

Sherlock narrowed the gap between them, and murmured against Rose's lips, "Tea time snog." He pressed his lips to hers for a second before withdrawing. As one corner of his mouth curved into a smile, he said, "Shall we begin?"

.

 


	38. I've Cut It Down to the Really Good Bits

Rose emitted a long, shuddering breath before a grateful moan escaped her. Sherlock knew she was close and he increased his efforts before a loud clatter startled both of them.

"Don't... stop... _sorry_ ," Rose panted, before another pan joined the first with a reverberating clank onto the kitchen floor.

Rose's hand suddenly found its way into Sherlock's hair, a sure-fire signal that she was there. Dropping her head back brought about a dull thud as she hit the overhead cabinet and her curse died on a gasp as a shockwave rippled through her. Sherlock steadied her lest she slide from the countertop, as Rose was lost in the waves of her orgasm.

Swift, light footsteps ascended the staircase with the accompanying call of his landlady.

"Everything all right, Sherlock?"

"Quick, go!" Sherlock bid Rose, gathering her up, her dressing gown gaping, and her bare flesh flushed, and gently lowering her back onto the kitchen floor.

Rose dashed around the fridge, and disappeared into Sherlock's bedroom as Sherlock quickly wiped his mouth on a tea towel which he then dropped into the sink. He turned the tap on and squirted in a generous amount of dishwashing detergent just as the older woman opened the door to the kitchen from the landing.

"What's going on? Not another hazardous chemical spill?"

"No, just washing the dishes," Sherlock replied disinterestedly, without turning around.

Though dressed in his grey shirt and dark trousers, wearing a damn sight more than his lover had been wearing only moments ago, Sherlock found he couldn't face his landlady just yet. His trousers strained to hide the evidence of his own mounting arousal.

He took a step backward and stooped to pick up one of the offending copper pots. Returning it to the side of the sink, he said, "I stacked up too many at once. They fell. Not too hard a deduction to make."

He was partly grateful that Mrs Hudson retrieved the second saucepan for him. It had bounced closer to the doorway, and there was no way he was going to turn around to fetch it.

"You, washing dishes," Mrs Hudson remarked as she approached Sherlock with the pot. "Mrs Turner always says—"

"Do you mind? I'm thinking."

The landlady carefully placed the saucepan on top of the first and offered the comment, "I thought playing the violin helps you think."

"I'm trying something different," Sherlock swiftly replied. "Now could you please leave before I lose my train of thought."

"I prefer the sounds of the violin," Mrs Hudson muttered as she left the kitchen, gently closing the door behind her.

As her footsteps retreated downstairs, Sherlock bowed his head and sighed deeply. Perhaps they should've locked both doors before commencing their game of Cluedo. Sherlock usually kept the doors locked whenever Rose stayed over, but their routine was a bit different today; it was Friday, not Sunday.

Since Rose had been passed over for a promotion at the home entertainment store, she had taken to working within the parameters of her job description, and that also meant using the leave she was owed. Sherlock and Rose had already discussed the logistics for the weekend. John's Stag Night was on Saturday night, so Rose would not come over after her shift—her last shift—at the strip club. Her mother had quite often invited Rose to Sunday brunch—an invitation Rose had always declined because of her routine with Sherlock—but on this occasion she would accept. So they wouldn't miss spending an entire day together, Rose had taken a day's leave from the store on Friday. She arrived late Thursday night and would leave in the early hours of Saturday morning.

Feeling rather frivolous at getting to spend a weekday with Sherlock, Rose suggested they bring out the game of Operation for a session of Strip-Operation for old times' sake. Sherlock declared it dull, because Rose wouldn't let him electrify the circuit, and at a suggestion of Strip-Poker, he classified it as unimaginative.

Rose had rummaged through Sherlock's cupboard and found the board game of Cluedo. Sherlock had wrinkled his nose and said that the rules were wrong, because it didn't allow for the victim to have committed suicide when everything pointed to the fact. Rose had laughed and reminded him that they didn't play these games by their written rules anyway.

At a slight flicker of alarm in Sherlock's eyes, Rose eagerly anticipated playing this particular version with the detective. She had assumed that he had allocated a rating of ten out of ten to the time they had sex against her kitchen wall, and she was looking forward to giving Sherlock new experiences once again.

"We only need the cards," she explained to an ashen-faced Consulting Detective, "and not the board. Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," Sherlock quickly replied. "It's just unusually stuffy in here at this time of year."

Rose kept a straight face as she brought the game cards over to the couch where Sherlock was sitting. She placed the cards onto the coffee table in their respective piles.

"This version of the game was made up by Maria. Do you remember her?"

Sherlock shook his head imperceptibly. "I never met any of the other prostitutes in the brothel."

"Oh. Well she was the one who used most of the costumes stored in that cupboard in our room. Remember?"

"Why do you say 'our room'? Was it not used by anyone else?"

Rose's face softened at the memory. "It... well, yes. But I used the room across the hallway on Thursday and Saturday nights. On the three occasions I was called in to... meet you, I chose that room because Tuesday's were quiet and I liked the window facing the road. So... I like to think of it as our room."

Sherlock studied Rose's face, and briefly returned her smile.

"I've never played this version," Rose confessed. "Just so you know. Maria participated in a couple of orgies when she worked in Liverpool, so it's really for a large group of people."

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow, but otherwise maintained a cool visage.

"Okay, you know what these are," she began, turning over the first pile of cards and fanning them across the table. "These are the suspects, so they're the ones who—"

"I know who suspects are," Sherlock said impatiently.

Rose soldiered on despite the interruption. "They're the ones who could possibly have committed the crime, so in this version," she said, pausing to gaze meaningfully into Sherlock's eyes, "they perform the sexual act."

Sherlock cleared his throat. He hadn't needed to, but his airway felt like it could constrict at any moment.

"Well, in an orgy," Rose went on to explain, "you'd just allocate different characters to the people in the group. Since it's just the two of us, I'll take all of the female suspects, and you take the male."

"When you say take..."

"It just means, my turn or your turn. There are only the two of us after all."

"Thank God for that," Sherlock muttered.

Rose smiled in response. "So if we turn over Colonel Mustard, for example, that means _you're_ performing the act. But if it's Miss Scarlett, then that would be me. Now, the weapons..."

Sherlock's eyes widened in alarm, but Rose had her eyes on the cards and hadn't noticed. She spread them out before them and continued. "In a group sex scenario, Maria said they had a lot of props—dildos, whips, handcuffs, that kind of thing." Rose glanced up at Sherlock as she spoke and found that his complexion had turned a paler shade of shit-scared again.

"So..." she said, grasping his hand and squeezing it in an effort to reassure him. "...we'll just use what we normally have at our disposal—hands, mouth, genitals."

Sherlock blinked rapidly as his three methods of pleasuring Rose were swiftly retrieved from his Mind Palace database.

"Do you mean..." he began, his mind still racing. "We... allocate a potential weapon to..."

"Now you're getting it," Rose remarked, her eyes lit up in encouragement. "As there are six weapons, we can say two each to mean hands, mouth, and genitals. Just randomly. You don't have to put too much thought into it. And I promise you," Rose said, arching an eyebrow, "I won't make any psychological observations about which objects you pair."

Sherlock had narrowed his eyes as he studied the cards, then, decision made, he spoke quite rapidly. "Candlestick and Rope—hands; Lead Pipe and Spanner—mouth; Dagger and Revolver—genitalia."

Rose was caught by surprise at Sherlock's quick categorising. "Okay. Great. No need to expl—"

"Well, it's obvious. The candlestick and the rope are ordinary household items, handy to have around the house—therefore, hands. The lead pipe and the spanner can be used by tradesmen, plumbers, specifically. In fact the word plumber is derived from the Latin word for lead. However, lead pipes are no longer used to transport water—lead poisoning of course. And poison is usually ingested orally, so: mouth. I just put the spanner with the plumber. It's arbitrary really. Now the revolver—"

"Sherlock," Rose interrupted him. She gently placed a hand on his arm. "It's fine. As long as _you_ can remember them."

"Okay, fine," Sherlock responded, a bit miffed that he didn't get to finish explaining his clever word association.

"Right then," Rose said with a sigh. "The Rooms should be more obvious."

Sherlock took the pile of cards that was left in front of him, turned it over, then spread the cards across the table.

"Well, the kitchen's obvious," he stated.

"Yes, so..." Rose said, dragging over the kitchen card. "The rest of the kitchen is the kitchen, but the table you've got in there can be the dining room."

"How can a table be a room?"

"Sherlock, this is for the purposes of..."

Rose paused, a smile slowly spreading across her face. She watched Sherlock until the light went on in his eyes.

"Oh!"

"Good man," Rose said, patting Sherlock's leg. "So, the lounge can be this couch, the hall can be the passageway just outside your bedroom, now... the ballroom..."

Rose narrowed her eyes in thought. Sherlock didn't quite get it, but he didn't want to say.

"The rug!" Rose exclaimed in delight.

"The rug," Sherlock repeated in distaste.

"Yes! Because you taught me to waltz there. It can be the ballroom!"

"You mean, we're going to have sex on my living room rug?"

"Potentially," Rose replied. "It all depends on the card that gets turned over, doesn't it?"

Sherlock stifled an eye-roll as Rose moved the Room cards away that they had already allocated.

"Okay," Rose said, leaning forward and studying the remaining cards. "The library, where can that be? Where do you sit and read books?" she asked pointedly, staring at Sherlock and arching her eyebrows in expectation.

This time Sherlock _did_ raise his eyes to the ceiling. "My... armchair?" he answered reluctantly.

Rose beamed at him. Clearly, it was the response she was waiting for.

"So, if you remember the layout of the game board, you'll find the billiard room right next to the library. _My_ chair!"

Sherlock's heart stuttered, and his eyes took in _Rose's chair._ It wasn't _Rose's chair,_ it was _John's chair._ It would always be _John's chair._ They couldn't have it off in _John's chair!_

"The study can be the living room table, now..." Rose drifted off, her attention drawn to the final room. Oblivious to Sherlock's internal panic attack, she placed an index finger on the last card, and idly dragged it from side to side. "What's a conservatory?"

Sherlock had become rigid, and his mind didn't register Rose's question. He was still staring with beady eyes at John Watson's armchair.

"Sherlock, what's a conservatory?"

The detective blinked, and then finally considered Rose's question. "It's a room built with enough windows so that you can enjoy the surrounding environment without putting yourself in it."

"Okay," Rose responded, looking toward the living room windows. "In front of the window?" she asked, pointing to the window nearest them.

"You want to have sex in front of the window?"

Sherlock wore a particularly pained expression. This was getting ridiculous now.

"Not so anybody can see us, don't worry," Rose laughed.

When Sherlock stared darkly into space, Rose abandoned her moment of frivolity. Leaning into him, and wrapping her arms around one of his, she said, "We don't have to play this. It was just an idea."

Sherlock turned his head to look down at Rose. She straightened up and planted a soft kiss on his cheek.

"We can cuddle on the couch like we normally do," she suggested. Rose released Sherlock's arm and turned her attention back to the coffee table. Sliding cards together, she said, "And have a cuppa. Do you want to put the kettle on?" She looked up at Sherlock, and gave him a reassuring smile, before stacking the cards back together again into their respective piles.

Sherlock slowly rose from the couch, deep in thought. Was Rose unhappy with their current sex life? Did she want to _spice it up a bit,_ a phrase Sherlock had heard once or twice. Was she disappointed in him?

He slowly filled the kettle, and switched it on, then drifted back toward the living room, stopping beside his ex-flatmate's chair, _the billiard room_. Rose had the three piles of cards neatly stacked in front of her on the coffee table, and she was staring at a set of three cards she had turned face up.

"What did you get?" Sherlock asked, startling Rose in the process.

"Oh," she said, before a sheepish grin escaped her. "Professor Plum, in the kitchen, with a lead pipe."

Sherlock stood facing Rose, with his hands thrust casually in his trouser pockets. Turning toward the kitchen, he bid her, "Come on then. Kettle's boiling. We want to be done before the water goes cold."

And the rest, as they say, is history.

Unless, of course, history was written by Mrs Hudson, in which case, all it would state is that Sherlock Holmes is perfectly capable of washing his own dirty dishes.

* * *

Rose reluctantly drew back from Sherlock's warm lips. When his eyelids fluttered open, they remained open this time.

"And don't stare back at anyone trying to catch your eye," she said. "Because they probably want to pick a fight."

"I'm a grown man," Sherlock retorted, his voice rough from sleep. "I know how to handle myself in crowded pubs."

"Yes, but—"

"As much as I appreciate your concern, you're ruining the goodbye."

Rose couldn't believe how anxious she was feeling about the Stag Night later that evening. She had woken before dawn to make her early escape from Sherlock's flat under cover of darkness, and upon kissing him awake, she had preceded to give him advice for staying safe during his night out with his best friend.

"You have to get up anyway," Rose said, moving away from him and standing up.

She was already dressed, but Sherlock would usually get out of bed when she was leaving so they could say their goodbyes in the living room. When Rose departed, Sherlock would watch from his living room window, making sure she got into the taxi safely.

"And women might try to pick you up," Rose continued, as they left the bedroom. "They may say something trite in order to start a conversation." She stopped in the living room, turning to him as he pulled on his dressing gown over his pyjamas. "So just be nice," Rose added, lifting her hands to smooth out Sherlock's robe.

Rose realised she was sounding like a concerned parent whose child was going off to big school for the first time. She couldn't help it. The Stag Night had been such a source of turmoil for the detective that she just wanted everything to go smoothly for him so he and John could have a pleasant evening together.

"Goodbye, Rose," Sherlock said, banding his arms around her in an effort to end this topic of conversation.

He pressed his lips to hers, then drew back in readiness for the rest of their farewell ritual.

Small creases had appeared in Rose's brow. Clearly she had a bit more to say. Rose noted the hope and expectation in Sherlock's eyes and she decided she didn't want to disrupt Sherlock's much-needed kick-start for the day.

With her expression softening, she whispered her goodbye, followed by the much anticipated, _I love you_. And her own heart soared when she was gifted with Sherlock's broad grin in response. They kissed again far too passionately for a goodbye kiss, and Sherlock assumed Rose was trying to inject a good luck charm into hers.

When they drew back, Rose softly caressed Sherlock's cheek as she refrained from speaking. With one final half-smile, she turned and left, descending the stairs as quietly as possible.

Sherlock drifted toward the window, buoyed by the sudden surge of dopamine, his brain rewarding his central nervous system purely for the fact of being loved. Everybody should begin their day this way, the detective thought in reflection, as he parted his curtains a crack. What a tender world it would be.

As he observed the darkened figure that was Rose climb into a cab across the street and a little way down from 221, he came to the startling realisation that Rose did not get to start her days in the same way. There was something he was neglecting to tell her.

A tiny bleep punctuated the silence of the darkened flat, and Sherlock turned in the direction of its source. Of course, it was his phone, and it was located in his bedroom. Sherlock crossed the flat, entering his room as the light from the screen faded. Picking up the phone and pressing the home button, he managed a warm smile in response to Rose's message, although his heart now felt heavy with a new burden.

_And don't drink too quickly in so short a period. But have a wonderful night! I love you!_

* * *

Rose's otherwise dull Saturday at the home entertainment store was alleviated somewhat at the prospect of having a late afternoon tea with Mary Morstan. Rose had felt a pang of guilt at not finding the opportunity to have a night off and accept Mary's kind invitation to her Hen Night the previous weekend. When she had phoned beforehand to offer her apology, Mary had suggested they go out for a quick cuppa the following weekend before Rose started her shift at the club. Mary was going to spend the evening at her friend Cath's place while John had his night out with his Best Man.

The café was in Shoreditch, so Rose didn't have far to travel to work afterwards.

Rose found it refreshing to be able to chat with someone who knew most of her sordid details, past and present, with one exception. Mary didn't know about Rose's liaison with her fiancé. Of course, neither of the betrothed were each other's first partners, but Rose thought that volunteering this information made for an awkward conversation topic.

The two women chatted about movies they loved from their childhoods, favourite subjects in school, and how a man can manage to get a toilet plunger stuck in his rectum. It was Mary who raised the latter, having done a stint in A&E in her early twenties as a nurse-in-training.

Rose volunteered anecdotes of her own, mostly concerning fellow students in a counselling unit she had taken at uni and the problems caused in their workshops due to the odd dynamics of the group. She also mentioned her troubles at Roches, her sorrow at leaving the Rendezvous, and her secret desire to live in Paris some day. Nothing was mentioned about her stint as a prostitute, nor her relationship with Sherlock, and Rose couldn't help but notice that Mary never mentioned her work or private life in the years leading up to meeting John Watson.

It had been a lovely meet-up, and Mary insisted they do it again, or perhaps go for a few drinks one night, now that Rose's Saturday nights would be free after this one.

Rose entered the gentlemen's club on Old Street with a pang of regret. As an employer, the strip club had always been generous and supportive, and the camaraderie surrounding its employees—the dancers, the bouncers, and the bar staff—was to be admired compared to other places in the same industry. Rose also noted its stark contrast to the relationship that existed between management and staff at the home entertainment store. But Rose knew, in her heart, that she could no longer work there. She couldn't support a business that existed solely for the exploitation of women by men. It was wrong. This was her last tie to the sex industry, and it had to be severed.

Rose vowed to spend her evening checking coats, by eyeing the patrons critically, and not feeling sad for leaving the colleagues she'd come to care about at the club. However, her plans for her shift were unexpectedly altered. When Rose entered the dressing room to deposit her bag and coat before tending to the cloakroom at the entrance, she was descended upon by her dancer friends.

"No work tonight!"

"Getcha gear off then!"

Bewildered, Rose spluttered, "What's going on?"

She was told by several excitable young strippers that the club was throwing a farewell party for her tonight, so she was to change out of her uniform into borrowed clothes once more, and sit in the private booth all night while being waited upon like a VIP.

She was hugged several times over, which made changing out of her uniform—for the last time—not only an emotional experience, but also logistically difficult.

Rose was escorted to the main club area, but not before being "crowned" with a fake tiara by one of the dancers.

"We'd offer you the works," Gary, the owner, said with a mischievous grin, "Lap-dancing and what not, but I didn't think you'd go for it."

Rose had no shortage of party people in attendance. The dancers who weren't on stage would stop by, as well as the alternating presence of bar and security staff. The only constants were the club's owner, Gary, and Raji, his second in charge. Rose found herself getting tipsy, and she had never laughed so hard at bawdy stories since working a Saturday night at the brothel in Soho. The strippers had no shortage of anecdotes about club patrons, and neither did Gary and Raji. Rose was hugged and kissed and had her face rubbed raw of lipstick traces throughout the early evening. Their party was quite raucous and attracted the attention of several of the patrons who thought that by throwing money around they could gate-crash the private party. The bouncers were quite diligent in their duties in those cases.

It was the presence of a uniformed officer that gave Rose the idea that her pleasant evening was going to go awry. Guilty thoughts of surreptitious comings and going from Baker Street or her secret past life of sex with an MP flitted through her mind when the officer asked for her by name. Her heart leapt into her mouth, until the "police officer" started gyrating to the music in front of her and began unbuttoning his shirt.

Rose's mouth gaped in realisation that Gary had hired a male stripper for her. Gary, who employed approximately sixty female strippers on a casual basis, had gone to the trouble of hiring an outsider, as a farewell present for Rose.

Rose buried her face in Amber's shoulder, as the rest of the party hooted and whistled at the male dancer. This was not happening, Rose thought in deep embarrassment. And how had she not spotted the phony officer? She, of all people, who had once performed this exact same role, who had 'arrested' oblivious young men—Sherlock Holmes included—had not recognised the theatrics.

She laughed and tried to cover her face, then curled up into Amber when the male stripper tried to encourage her to stand and dance with him. Rose then prodded Amber, the young stripper having no hesitation in joining her male counterpart in the middle of the private area.

As the attention was fixed on the two strippers in the middle of the VIP area, Rose took this as an opportunity to seek some fresh air. It had been a while since she had ever consumed so much alcohol in so short a period. She stood, wobbled a bit, then navigated past the many legs that were sat around. She playfully punched Raji in the shoulder as she passed him, saying, "Arsehole! I know it was you!"

Rose sought refuge by Askari, the largest bouncer standing on the edge of the private area. "As I'm a bit drunk," she said, slurring slightly and wrapping her arms around his massive one, "do you think you could escort me outside? I need air."

"How can you stop working here now, after this?" he asked her.

"How can I stay, after this? It's a farewell party!" she retorted, giggling a little.

As they turned toward the doors to the entrance, Rose was startled to see two familiar figures enter the main room. One was shorter than the other, and slightly stockier, and he was making a bee-line for what Rose knew was the corridor leading to the toilets. The other had stopped, his great coat hanging from him as he stood, like a Spencer Hart model, scanning the room.

_Good God. Sherlock._

Having the effects of alcohol lower her inhibitions and practically obliterate her usual paranoia, Rose released her hold on Askari, and strode confidently toward the Consulting Detective. He spied her across the floor, and his face lit up in recognition.

"Rosie!" he exclaimed, striding the last few paces that separated them, before enveloping her in an enormous bear hug.

Rough hands seized Sherlock just as quickly, pulling him from the Rendezvous employee.

"Whoa, whoa!" the detective protested, holding up his hands in surrender.

"It's okay!" Rose called out urgently to Askari, the bouncer, as additional security looked on in interest. "He's a friend!"

Frowning petulantly as the bouncer released him, and flapping out his coat, like a peacock preening, Sherlock regarded Rose through glassy eyes.

"Why are you dressed like that?"

"They're throwing a party for me," Rose answered, displaying a good deal of drunken enthusiasm herself. "I didn't have to work tonight after all!"

"But... you look like a street walker."

A great laugh escaped Rose, and she stepped forward, wrapping her arms around Sherlock. "You know these aren't _my_ clothes," she whispered, "but I love it when you talk dirty."

Sherlock beamed, and pressed his forehead against Rose's. "I'm a bit light-headed. That's good I think."

"No, I think you're actually really drunk," she laughed, "but don't worry, I'm a bit tipsy, too."

"No, no. Of course I'm not drunk. I have an app. I've been monitoring."

Sherlock released Rose from his embrace, and fumbled around inside his jacket pocket for his phone, his brow furrowed in concentration. As Rose looked on in drunken amusement, Bella, one of the dancers who was currently collecting her floor fee, enthusiastically sidled up to them.

"Who's your friend, Rose?" Bella asked, holding her collection jug in front of her.

"Oh, he's not... don't worry about..." Rose began, stumbling over her words because she wanted to not only preserve Sherlock's anonymity but also to discourage Bella from hustling Sherlock for money.

Sherlock looked up, having successfully located his phone. "Hello," he said amiably.

"Would you like to see me dance?" Bella asked, nodding to the stage area and lifting her jug a little higher.

Sherlock drew his brow down in disapproval. Rose could see his mind at work, and just as he opened his mouth, she cut in. "He's just leaving, Bella. Don't worry about him."

Bella feigned a disappointed pout, and was just about to leave when Sherlock told her, with accompanying waggling index finger, "You know, you don't have to do this."

"Sherlock!" Rose interjected, swiftly shoving his hand back down. She wrapped her arms around Sherlock's, and pivotted him away from the stripper. Calling over her shoulder, she said, "He's from out of town! Don't worry!"

Bella reluctantly left them alone, but forgot the pair the instant she spied a group of raucous males at a nearby table.

"I was going to tell her she was being exploited," Sherlock lamented.

"There's a time and a place," Rose whispered to him. "They'll kick you out if they think you're acting aggressively toward a dancer when they're trying to do their hustling thing. Why are you here, anyway?"

"Because it's your last night, and I didn't want you to go home alone."

It was a combination of Sherlock's puppy dog eyes, and the alcoholic fumes that swam around her head that prompted Rose to grab Sherlock in a rough embrace once more. "You're so thoughtful," she gushed, gazing up at him in awe of his considerate behaviour.

"I know," he replied, bowing his head, and returning Rose's sappy smile with one of his own.

The pair were lost in their own blissful, inebriated bubble, grinning stupidly at each other and oblivious to the surrounding environment. When Rose stood on her toes, to press her lips to Sherlock's, the detective was only too keen to reciprocate. Sherlock held her tightly, and parted his lips when Rose did. Rose threaded her fingers through Sherlock's curls as their kissing deepened without restraint.

A tender hand patted Rose on the shoulder, before a deep voice called her urgently. She left off snogging with her detective-lover to look around in confusion. The looming presence of the bouncer, Askari, stood beside them, prompting Rose to remember where they were.

"You'll have to take this somewhere private," he told them.

Rose sheepishly apologised, then grabbed Sherlock by the hand, leading him over to a wall before the toilets.

"You heard him," Sherlock began. "We should go home now… to Baker Street."

"I think I should stay longer to say goodbye to my workmates," Rose replied. "But anyway, isn't… didn't John… ?" Rose frowned in confusion. She was sure she'd seen John Watson enter the club only moments ago, and she faintly recalled Mary saying she expected John to stay over at Baker Street tonight with Sherlock, for old times' sake, after their night out. "Sherlock! Where's John?"

"John?" Sherlock repeated. He tilted his head slightly to one side, as his mind navigated through the sludge of his intoxication to find the last known location of the stag. "Oh, pfff," Sherlock replied eventually. "Weak bladder," he replied, flapping a hand in the direction of the toilets. "He keeps needing to go. Oh!" he exclaimed, his eyes widening as he recalled something specific. "I need to log that!"

Sherlock swiftly unlocked his phone, and his face split in two when he caught sight of what was on his screen. He turned the phone around to show Rose. The former cloakroom attendant burst into laughter at the selfie Sherlock had taken of himself and the groom at some stage during the Stag Night.

Sherlock's furrowed brow replaced his mirthful expression as he tried to find the app he was using to monitor his and John's alcohol input _and output_.

"So how did you get John to enter a strip club?" Rose asked, as she watched him in interest.

"Oh, he didn't notice what this club was. He just wanted to use the bathroom. But I wanted to see you."

At that time of the evening, Sherlock and John had just rounded the corner, having left The Hound and Mortar, where Sherlock had almost got into a fight in the beer garden after insisting to a particularly unimpressed patron that the detective knew _ash—_ all 243 types of tobacco ash, in fact. And furthermore, he knew _ashtrays_.

As Sherlock gazed across Old Street, in Shoreditch, his face lit up in recognition of the strip club, whose neon sign blazed before him like a beacon.

 **R** e n d **e** z v **o** u **s**

And in the haze of Sherlock's inebriation, combined with a Mind Palace operating at only 25% capacity, the letters all rearranged themselves, until four letters stood out, heralding another welcome sign.

 **R** _n v_ **O** _u e_ **S** _d z_ **E**

The detective's eyes widened in recognition. He grabbed his best friend's jacket sleeve and pulled him to the kerb.

"This way, John!"

"Ah, I need to visit the..."

"She's this way!"

"She?"

They crossed the street with John muttering to himself about Sherlock assigning gender pronouns to dunnies. As they approached the club, John noticed a group of men up ahead who were denied access for being too drunk.

"Uh, oh, Sherlock," John warned, his pace slowing.

"What?"

John nodded toward the busy entrance to the club. "We won't get in if we're already intox... intox... drunk."

"Then we'll be fffine," Sherlock responded. He didn't notice that John had to wipe a bit of flying spittle from his face after the detective had spoken. "Ooh!" Sherlock exclaimed, holding out his arm to prevent John from walking further. "Look. Haircut, stance, dog tags, tattoo."

"What?" John asked, following Sherlock's gaze toward one of the bouncers on the door.

"Ex-military," Sherlock replied. "Just let it slip that you're a retired army captain, and you'll be right."

Satisfied that he had facilitated a worried John Watson in gaining entry to the club, Sherlock hung back, letting John do his army thing. When he saw both John and the security guy exchange salutes, he allowed himself a self-satisfied grin. He strode forward, expecting to gain immediate entry himself, when the bouncer held up one hand.

"Sorry, mate. Looks like you've already had enough for this evening," the big man said to Sherlock.

"But I'm..." Sherlock vaguely gestured behind the bouncer to where he could see John Watson standing by the cloakroom waiting for him, shuffling from foot to foot like a toddler in need of the bathroom. Oh, Sherlock realised. John _did_ need to go desperately. Why was the idiot waiting for him then?

"I saw you lurching across the street," the bouncer informed Sherlock. "You stumbled off the kerb. Bit too much to drink?"

"I was merely escorting my..." Sherlock flapped a hand in John's general direction."... colleague. Here..." Sherlock reached into his coat pocket, realised there was nothing in there, then swapped hands to search his jacket pocket instead. He finally retrieved the identification wallet he had been searching for. Flashing an I.D. card and badge at the bouncer, he said, taking care to enunciate his words, "Detective Inspector..." Sherlock raised a fist to his mouth in order to stifle a burp. "... Gregory Lestrade, C.I.D." He then lowered his voice to a confidential whisper. "I need to question your cloakroom attendant, Rosemarie Sulford."

Upon hearing an official title and being shown identification, as well as recognising the name of one of his colleagues, the bouncer stepped aside, giving a brief nod to the 'Scotland Yard D.I.' as he entered the establishment.

Sherlock joined John in front of the cloakroom, but stared in puzzlement at the attendant who was clearly not Rose.

"No, no," John said, grabbing Sherlock by his coat sleeve. "We don't need to check our coats. I just need the loo."

Satisfied that Sherlock was going to follow him into the main room, John released his grip, and strode through the door. Sherlock assumed he'd find Rose out the back having a break, and had swiftly followed his friend.

Rose was still quite chuffed that Sherlock had sought her out this evening, and that he knew how important her last night on the job was to her.

"Let's go home," he bid her again, after he put his phone away.

Rose opened her mouth to explain how early it was and about the farewell party once more, when Sherlock's attention was drawn away. John Watson had emerged from the toilets and, recognising Sherlock by his Belstaff, he had made his way over to him. Suddenly the flashing lights on the stage, and the onset of dance music caught John's attention, and the good doctor realised into what type of club the two men had entered.

"Ah, Sherlock," he said, tugging on the detective's sleeve as John stared, mesmerised at the entertainment. "I don't think we want to be in here."

Ignoring John's moment of epiphany since the knowledge of the club being a strip joint was old news to the detective, Sherlock responded with, "John, look who I found! It's... it's..."

John turned his attention back to his friend and the woman who stood beside him. He narrowed his eyes at Rose and took a few moments to consult his own memory banks, as dulled by alcohol as they were. "I know you, don't I?" he asked, furrowing his brow.

"It's Rosie, John!"

"Shh-shelley _Something_ ," John murmured, almost simultaneously.

Sherlock snorted in amusement then wrapped a drunken arm around Rose's shoulders. He then prodded John's sternum as he spoke. "That's... her... call... girl... name. _Rude! "_ he finished, pointing his index finger right between Doctor Watson's eyes. "Not _Shelley._ It's Rose!"

Rose knew there was something she was supposed to be concerned about with regard to bumping into John Watson. Since she couldn't immediately figure it out, she gave John a little wave anyway.

The doctor shook his head and blinked confusedly. He also thought there was something about this woman in Sherlock's company that was supposed to trouble him. Then he turned to Sherlock and said, "We should go. Er... cab?" and he immediately dismissed Rose from his thoughts.

The ex-army captain about-faced, swayed, then strode to the doorway through to the club entrance, with all the grace of an inebriated man pretending to the world that he was sober. Sherlock grabbed Rose's hand and hastened along after his friend.

"Wait, Sherlock!" Rose hissed, trotting along behind the detective. "I can't go yet."

"What?" Sherlock asked, turning to Rose as they joined John in the entrance.

"I'm having a farewell party," she said, waving a hand back toward the club room. "A party-strip-thing."

John Watson regarded the pair, and noticed the small detail of their hand holding. He hastened forward and pried Sherlock's and Rose's hands apart.

"Oh no, no, no, no," he admonished Sherlock. "You can't take them home with you."

Rose and Sherlock exchanged a look, then both burst into laughter. Sherlock silently doubled over as Rose covered her mouth and turned away, quaking with laughter. John looked from one to the other, absolutely bewildered.

"He thinks... you're a stripper!" Sherlock struggled to say to Rose.

John look on, bemused. He didn't understand the hilarity.

"She's... she's..." Sherlock stammered before being overcome with an attack of the giggles once more.

John grabbed Sherlock's coat sleeve and said to Rose, in a voice of condescension, "S-sorry. My friend has to leave."

He tugged on Sherlock's sleeve, pulling the detective along toward the doors as Sherlock snorted another laugh.

"You can't..." John said, struggling to transport the giggling detective to the kerb. "You can't encourage them," he finished. He waited until they were away from the doors and out of earshot of the bouncers, then added, "They only want your money."

For reasons John couldn't fathom, this remark brought a fresh round of chuckling from the detective-genius. John tried to ignore him, and scanned the length of the road for a cab. He didn't have to wait long. He raised his hand in the air, noting with satisfaction, that a cab was slowing down. Sherlock had finally composed himself, and, seeing that John was hailing a cab, he suddenly shoved his friend aside, sending him sprawling along the footpath.

"I call the taxis!" Sherlock admonished John, and the detective raised a finger into the air to continue signalling the same cab.

John recovered from his fall, and lunged at the Best Man, tackling the lanky bastard to the ground. While the two men were grappling each other on the footpath, the cab driver had second thoughts about picking up a pair of drunken louts outside a strip club, and sped off.

John recovered faster than Sherlock, and stood, swearing under his breath when he saw they'd lost their ride home.

"Dickhead," he said.

Sherlock was busy brushing dirt from his coat, when John raised his hand for the next cab.

"Oh!" the detective exclaimed. "The goodbye!"

John tutted and shook his head, not having a clue what the Great Consulting Detective was on about now. Sherlock strode away from the kerb back towards the club, fluffed his hair with his fingers, and then straightened his coat, popping the collar up in the process.

He gave a vague nod to the same bouncer as before, and disappeared into the club. He was glad to find Rose just inside, talking animatedly with the substitute cloakroom attendant.

"Rose!"

Rose turned around, and her eyes lit up in recognition of Sherlock once more.

"I forgot to say goodbye," Sherlock said, before gathering her up in his arms.

Rose nervously looked around, but the bouncers at the door had their attention on the street outside for the moment. "What's happened to you?" she asked Sherlock, brushing dirt from one of his lapels. "You look all... messed up."

"Scuffle thing. Outside," Sherlock said vaguely, suddenly feeling the heavy soporific effect of all of the alcohol he had unknowingly consumed over the last few hours. "John. He's fine. Wounded pride, I think."

"You can't be fighting outside a club. You're a Consulting Detective. You have an international reputation."

"Do I?" Sherlock asked, blinking slowly.

Rose nodded, then asked, "You okay?"

A sleepy grin spread across Sherlock's face. He had a thing to do, and he knew it commenced with this: "Goodbye, Rose."

"Bye, Sherlock," Rose whispered in return. She stole a tiny kiss from Sherlock's full lips.

Sherlock's eyes were narrow slits when he murmured, "Say it, Rose. Say the words."

Rose smiled, her own heart pounding with the effects of the free drinks she'd consumed at her farewell party. "I love you."

"Yes!" Sherlock exclaimed loudly, and with a sudden rush of energy, he lifted Rose, and spun her around where he stood.

Rose yelped in surprise, then immediately wished she hadn't.

As the firm hands of two security personnel clamped over Sherlock's arms and shoulders, he gently lowered Rose to the floor. He held her close, and drunkenly murmured in her ear, before he was pried away.

"Right buddy!" one bouncer said.

"You," Sherlock said, grinning with great affection, his arm outstretched and pointing at Rose, as he was pushed toward the door.

"No touching!" advised the second bouncer.

John was slouched by the open door of a second cab, almost nodding off when the two bouncers responded to a commotion inside the club entrance. The doctor straightened up and through beady eyes he watched as the bouncers came out again, roughly depositing an indignant detective-genius onto the footpath.

"We have a no touching policy, mate!"

"I wasn't touching _you_ ," Sherlock called back.

"Jesus, Sherlock," John muttered under his breath. The doctor retrieved the unruly detective and steered him toward the waiting taxi. "Get in."

The Rendezvous security personnel watched as the two inebriated men bickered in front of the cab door, before the shorter man pushed the other into the back seat.

As the cab left the kerb and disappeared along Old Street, one bouncer said to the other, "Another seedy copper."

"Yeah. What was his name?"

"Lestrade?"

"That's right. Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade."

Inside the entrance, Rose's heart-rate was through the roof. Her skin was flushed and the side of her face, where Sherlock had whispered his intoxicated words, continued to burn. It wasn't the embarrassment of Sherlock carrying on like a pork chop, or the drama of having her boyfriend bounced from the club that had her all flustered. The words he'd spoken to her after he'd lowered her to the ground had caused her to blush.

_I love you, too._


	39. Wasted Opportunity

Sherlock stepped out of the shower and vigorously towel-dried his hair, before attending to the rest of his body. At least the smell of stale cigarette smoke was gone, and the sour taste in his mouth had been eliminated by brushing his teeth two, no three, times while he was showering. Had he really thrown up in the middle of a potential crime scene?

A number of disappointments and alarming thoughts flitted through his mind while he was taking a shower:

1\. He had neglected to grill John while the doctor was 'light-headed' last night about this mysterious former Commanding Officer, who "receives more death threats" than Sherlock himself, and who felt no need to send in an RSVP to John's wedding

2\. The case of the woman dating a ghost had been the most interesting one he'd had for months and he had ruined the investigation, and

3\. He'd told Rose that he loved her.

He couldn't do anything about item number three, except perhaps hope that the drama of being manhandled for 'touching' a Rendezvous employee last night meant that Rose hadn't actually heard him. But... would it be so bad if she had? He had meant it, hadn't he? Earlier in the day, he'd already thought about reciprocating the sentiment, when Rose had left his flat before dawn, but he hadn't really decided just when that first utterance was going to happen. He assumed he'd require _years_ to work up the... what was it? _Courage_? Of course not. Since when was he afraid of anything? Obviously the sentiment required further analysis, and it wasn't something the detective was supposed to say willy-nilly.

But... intoxication. Alcohol over-consumption had a lot to answer for. Fancy letting that little snippet of _emotion_ escape, uncensored, from his mouth. Ridiculous.

Sherlock wouldn't see Rose until later, depending on when he managed to get over to Leinster Gardens. He knew Rose was having Sunday brunch with her mother, so he wouldn't have the pleasure of her company any earlier. At one point during their evening out, he thought he could sneak out of Baker Street in the middle of the night, whether John had stayed over in his old room or not, and wind up curled around Rose in her bed. But his plans had been scuttled because he and John had been incarcerated for the night in an inner city police lock up for being drunk and disorderly.

As Sherlock dressed he thought he could tend to items one and two this morning. At least, he could commence item one—investigate Major Sholto, John's previous, no... _former_ Commander—while John was using Mrs Hudson's bathroom downstairs. If the doctor returned to Sherlock's flat to say goodbye, then he'd switch to item number two—investigate other cases of women dating ghosts, as described by last night's client, Tessa.

Sherlock entered his living room detecting the faint smell of a breakfast fry-up as it wafted up the stairwell. There was a good chance that the landlady was cooking breakfast for Doctor Watson, _just like old times_ , so Sherlock would have a fair amount of time to commence investigating Sholto.

The Consulting Detective powered up his laptop, then retreated to the kitchen to make himself a cup of tea. The little tray containing a teapot and solitary tea cup were there, as they always were every morning, on the side table next to his armchair, but the tea in the pot was stone cold. He knew this, because he'd already checked upon returning from the police station. So the tea making still happened whether he was in his flat or not. Strange.

While the kettle was boiling, Sherlock strode back into the living room and carefully scanned it for any other clues last night's client may have left behind. He had a vague memory of Tessa producing a printout from her bag, and for some reason he recalled it as one of those posters people often make to tape to lampposts, pleading for the return of their lost dogs.

So Tessa had a dog, and Sherlock would only need ten minutes to find it. Dogs were easy to locate—ghost dates... not so easy. So why was she asking him to find her dog as well? Was she trying for a two-for-one deal?

Sherlock shook his head. Perhaps his recall about the previous night's case was a bit hazy.

Sherlock spied a folded piece of paper on the floor of the landing. He strode over to it, and stooped to pick it up. He must've dropped it on their way out last night. He furrowed his brow as he scanned the page. It was a screenshot of a website called _I Dated A Ghost. com._ Now why had he thought it was something to do with a pet dog?

Dismissing all thoughts concerning the dog for the moment, Sherlock hastened to his living room table, and navigated to the Ghost-date website. _Oh_ , he thought as he studied the page. It was a forum for chatting about encounters with the spirit world—that's what Tessa was rabbiting on about. Sherlock spent the next few minutes searching the site for all of the posts Tessa had made under the login name he'd found on the printout.

After rapidly scanning the forum posts, he tutted once or twice.

 _What_ are _these women on about? They flit from one irrelevant topic to another. And now they're discussing a television show._

Surely there must be another connection between these women, other than obsessing over fictional TV characters, he thought, leaning back into his chair. He folded his arms in front of him, and distractedly rubbed his lower lip with his thumb. _Where had all these encounters taken place? Map! I need a map._

Sherlock rummaged around in the filing cabinet in the far corner of the living room until he found his large map of London. He had several versions of them, but these days he was pretty adept at visualising locations in his Mind Palace; he knew London quite intimately. This morning, however, his usually sharp mind was slightly hungover. The only image it was capable of conjuring up was of Rose's warm bed.

Sherlock alternately consulted the chatroom for posts on the most recent forum thread, and attended to the large map he had spread over the table. He murmured to himself, complete with furrowed brow, as he stabbed drawing pins into the corresponding locations on the map, "Covent Garden, Colville Estate, Holloway..."

_I wonder if I could get..._

His thoughts turned to Rose, and the possibility of using her as bait, if he could only determine when and from where this mystery ghost would choose to entertain his next date.

"Lower Clapton, Walworth," he intoned, pinning away, and immediately dismissing the idea of using Rose. "Tower Hamlets, Southwark, East Dulwich."

He stopped pinning as he surveyed the two-dimensional representation of London. His eyes flitted from pin to pin. He could find no pattern, no link between each of these locations. He had nothing.

_I wonder if Rose is home yet._

Sherlock heaved a sigh in frustration. He had no choice. He was going to have to join the chat forum and question as many women as he could ascertain had dated the same 'ghost.' Sherlock sank back down into his chair and eyed the website critically. He needed to have multiple conversations simultaneously in order to find a common trait between them all. But first he had to narrow the field of selection.

 _Open multiple windows_ , he thought, outlining a plan of attack in his mind, _then scan each forum member for reoccurrences of the same attributes._ Sherlock scoffed and tutted. Multiple windows meant smaller windows, and he loathed typing into tiny fields. Using his phone these days was hard enough. Perhaps his eyesight was getting worse.

_Old age. Happens to us all, brother mine._

_Oh, shut up, Mycroft._

_Where's my other...?_

Sherlock glanced about him, looking for the second computer that he always used to have on hand. Though initially puzzled by its absence, it slowly dawned on the detective-genius that he didn't, in fact, own the other laptop. The second device he normally commandeered belonged to John Watson, and the ex-army captain no longer lived with him in Baker Street.

 _John!_ Sherlock's mind exclaimed, reminding the detective that there was something else he wanted to work on this morning while his best friend was occupied downstairs.

_Major James Sholto._

After opening a new browser window over the first, Sherlock swiftly searched for any news articles relating to John's ex-army Commander. He found several—the world was _shocked_ and parents of young army personnel were _outraged_. Sherlock had just commenced reading another news story when he heard footsteps ascending the stairs. When the figure of John Watson came into view, Sherlock quickly switched to the window underneath, displaying the Ghost-date chat room once more.

"There are going to be others," he said to John, his mind switching gears as swiftly as he had changed the windows on his computer screen.

"Others?" the doctor repeated upon crossing the threshold.

"Victims, women. Most ghosts tend to haunt a single house," Sherlock explained as he rose from his seat. "This ghost, however, is willing to commute. Look."

Sherlock indicated the map sprawled across the table as John approached.

"Right," John remarked, eyeing the map as if he knew what he was studying. "Sorry, what?"

"The locations of the flats where our ghost took his dates," Sherlock explained. He turned from John and strode toward the kitchen, calling back, "I'll have to question the other victims on that chatroom Tessa was talking about." He waved vaguely at his computer, then busied himself pouring hot water into his tea cup.

John rounded the table and gave the computer screen a cursory glance.

"Tea?" Sherlock asked, briefly looking over at John before slowly stirring sugar into his beverage.

"Ugh, no thanks," John answered. "I'm... ah... going to go home and have a bit of shut eye, unless you need me to... ah... help? Didn't really get a decent night's sleep in that cell."

Sherlock hummed in agreement. "Nope. I won't be doing much else with it today. I have a few things to attend to myself."

_Like crash at Rose's flat. With Rose._

Sherlock turned his back on his cup, and leant against the counter, while he let the tea steep. John approached the kitchen, rubbing his hand on the nape of his neck and clearing his throat awkwardly. Sherlock tensed, ever so imperceptibly, in anticipation of the potential topic of conversation; it was obviously going to be something that made John uncomfortable.

"So... yeah, thanks for last night," John bid him, with half a smile. "I'm sure it was the thought that counts."

"I'm not entirely sure I'm responsible for the state in which we ended up," Sherlock responded, arching a brow at his best friend.

John grinned sheepishly. "Yeah... may have miscalculated something somewhere along the way. So..." The doctor cleared his throat again.

 _Here it comes,_ Sherlock thought.

"We... we... we ended up in a strip joint. Is that right?"

"Well, you had to empty your bladder for the dozenth time, and as we had to make a quick exit from The Hound and Mortar, it was the only open venue for the next block and a half."

"Right," John remarked, vigorously nodding his acceptance for Sherlock's explanation, as if he would need to repeat the excuse himself later. "And we... we... bumped into... ah..."

Sherlock carefully studied his best friend's expression and mannerisms as the doctor faltered once more.

 _He's not making eye contact,_ Sherlock thought in scrutiny. _Physically turning away because he wants to steer away from the subject matter. Can't finish her name because he's not able to decide by which name he should call her—the student, or the prostitute. If he says 'Shelley', then he's denying all knowledge of Rose's confession to him the morning after they snogged. If he calls her 'Rose,' then he's either admitting that he knows he almost had sex with a prostitute, or he's acknowledging the information I fed him last night about Rose's real identity. Whatever the scenario, he's hesitant in being the one to continue the topic of conversation that may lead him to admit that he knows I used to pay a prostitute to have sex with me._

"Er..." John shook his head again, as if to rattle the thoughts away. "Never mind."

The vague dismissal of the subject barely discussed caused a sudden twist in Sherlock's stomach. It was as if John abandoning his train of thought was a rejection of Rose herself. _Rose_. The woman he...

_...loved._

Sherlock had been so very close to confessing to being in a relationship with Rose that he suddenly felt as if he were left on a high trapeze without a safety net. He just wasn't sure John would react favourably.

Sherlock's head was buzzing, and as he turned back to his tea, he barely heard John mutter something about retrieving his wallet from between the sofa cushions. Sherlock bowed his head, as he tapped his fingers on the counter, absorbed in his own thoughts.

"Ah, Sherlock?"

The inflexion in John's voice indicated that the doctor had already tried to get Sherlock's attention at least once, so the detective turned around, lifting his brow in interest.

"See you tomorrow?" John asked him.

"Yes," Sherlock answered, his reply a little rough around the edges.

John turned and made to exit through the kitchen door to the landing, when a cocktail of brain chemicals flooded Sherlock's central nervous system.

"John."

Doctor Watson paused on the landing, and gazed back through the doorway at Sherlock. "Yeah?"

Sherlock may have stared at John in silence for a moment longer than was necessary. His Mind Palace swiftly calculated the most probable outcome in response to his impending confession of love for a former prostitute.

After a steadying breath, and two rapid blinks to indicate he was functioning normally again, Sherlock finally spoke.

"Could you bring your laptop?"

* * *

Her legs were heavy, and every step accentuated each throb in her head. At catching sight of her door at the top of the stairwell, Rose exhaled deeply. In hindsight, perhaps she should've postponed brunch with her mother, not that the older woman had even asked her daughter as to the cause of her pale, clammy visage and bloodshot eyes.

"You've hardly eaten anything," Mrs Sulford had complained in the abrupt, accusatory tone that Rose had come to loathe over the years.

"I think I'm coming down with something."

All Rose wanted to do was to flop onto her bed, fully clothed, and sleep for the rest of the day, like an adolescent who had no responsibilities. She would wake only when Sherlock arrived. Thoughts of the detective had made her heart flutter in excitement, and Rose had found herself replaying in her mind Sherlock's uncharacteristic but enthusiastic hug and inebriated murmurings several times during brunch. He had told her he loved her. Sherlock Holmes had whispered the magic words…

…while he was drunk, mind.

Her keys were already in her hand when she reached her floor. Rose unlocked the door, and pushed through, flicking the door so that it swung and clicked shut behind her. She briefly closed her eyes, letting her shoulders droop, and breathed in the calming serenity of her flat.

The light flutterings in her belly that kept her buoyant all morning would halt now and then, replaced by a leaden weight. Her mother's apparent cheery announcement had come at the wrong time, Rose thought in reflection. Her parents were thinking of moving to Scotland before the end of the year.

_Scotland!_

Her mother's aunt had suffered a bad fall at the end of winter, and Mrs Sulford wanted to be closer to help her cousins with the elderly woman's home care. Rose had never been close to her extended family up north, but having spent last Christmas with them, she felt extremely guilty when her first thoughts had been, _So who's going to support me when I go back to studying in September?_

"That's wonderful," she had forced herself to say out loud.

"And of course you'll still have to come to Perth for Christmas," her mother had insisted. The older woman's mouth snapped back into its default thin line. And no correspondence would be entered into.

Rose felt she was forever trying to make up for disappointing her parents during the last three years. She knew her father suspected Rose had been carrying on while the wonderful—in her dad's eyes—Jimmy Dodd was fulfilling his duties abroad for Queen and Country. _Carrying on, all right. And being paid for it, Dad. A filthy whore, I was._ She also thought Mr Sulford was aware she worked in a strip club. Her parents moved in the same social circles as Corporal James Dodd's parents, so if Jimmy knew, then surely his parents knew, too. Rose could imagine her mother pretending not to hear that bit of information. But that would explain the woman's permanent scowl of disapproval.

Rose shed her coat at the same time that she pushed away her dark thoughts regarding her parents. Spending time in her mother's company these days usually left her feeling exhausted. When they had initially reconciled late last year, Mrs Sulford at least made an effort to be pleasant. Now she was back to her usual dragon self.

Rose's bed beckoned, so she vowed not to think about it anymore today. Hopefully, some time during the early evening, Sherlock would arrive and silently slip into bed and curl his naked body around hers, she thought. That would be a welcome, if not delicious, way to wake up.

Rose spun around to hang her coat by the door, and was startled to see Sherlock's Belstaff already occupying the second hook.

"Rose?" the man himself called from the vicinity of her room at that same moment, having heard the sound of the door shutting.

Hearing his voice elevated Rose to great heights, and she hastened to her bedroom, calling out, "I wasn't expecting you til tonight."

Sherlock Holmes was sitting in Rose's bed, propped up by several of her pillows, and clad in pyjamas, with the quilt pulled up to his waist. Rose's computer was perched on his lap. As she entered the bedroom, a warm grin spread across Sherlock's face, and he moved the computer to the middle of the bed.

"I needed an afternoon _kip_ ," he began, as Rose rounded the bed, "so I didn't want to fall asleep at home, only to wake—"

His explanation was abruptly cut short when Rose mounted him, and laid her lips on his. Her mouth stirred an impatient need inside him, and Sherlock could taste her sweetness mingled with a desperate hunger. He drew her to him, grinding their pelvises together, as he firmly cupped the nape of her neck and returned her kiss.

Sherlock concluded that Rose had heard his declaration of love last night. It was the only explanation for her over-amorous attention right now, but he decided that this was a much better way to have his sentence finished for him. He'd deal with the fallout from his confession later.

Sherlock tugged at Rose's clothing, wanting to feel her soft, naked curves in an instant, such was the sharp arousal she had invoked in him. She had momentarily disarmed him, but Sherlock Holmes had always been a quick study when it came to making love to this woman.

When Rose allowed Sherlock to breathe again, the detective held her close and murmured, "Hello, Rose. Would you like your 'Hello' kiss now?" His hands were already underneath her shirt, warming her skin. His fingertips traced the outer edge of her bra, and in one quick movement, he had the hook unfastened. In a rush of fabric, both shirt and bra were discarded.

As Sherlock's mouth crushed Rose's this time, he held her fast, and swiftly rolled them so she was pinned underneath him. A muffled cry against his lips prompted Sherlock to remember the computer that he had placed in the middle of the bed.

"Sorry," he rasped, and eased away from Rose so she could draw the laptop out from underneath her. "I think it's okay," Sherlock added, on briefly examining the offending device.

He deposited it onto the bedside table, while Rose used the break in proceedings to slip off her shoes. She let them tumble to the floor, then turned to greedily eye the half-naked man beside her. He had also taken the opportunity to pull his pyjama shirt over his head and had tossed it lightly onto the floor.

The same thought seemed to pass between them, and the pair silently and swiftly shed the remainder of their clothing. As they reconnected, their movements were sudden, yet synchronised, a blur of limbs, and hurried whispers.

It was the unspoken words in every glance, each sigh and gasp made by Rose that had Sherlock's heart pounding. She loved him, and he loved her, and pretty soon she would want to hear him say those words again. Sherlock had to circumvent any opportunity Rose had for voicing her feelings, for he had no intention of doing likewise.

* * *

"Only to wake in the early evening to find that I was still away from you."

"What?" Rose asked, her chest still heaving after Sherlock had rolled from her.

"I was finishing my sentence from before."

There was a faint smile gracing Sherlock's lips. Rose had shifted to her side to study him. She had no idea what the beginning of his sentence had been before she had accosted him earlier. She reached out and cupped his face, before pressing a light kiss onto his lips.

It was there in her moist gaze, Sherlock thought. _The sentiment_. She was going to utter those words any moment now, and she would expect a suitable response from him. This was no longer the goodbye ritual, where he had the luxury of grinning broadly, kissing the top of her head, then _leaving_. She would say those three words, raise her eyebrows at him, and he would smile, kiss her forehead, then _turn over._

Totally not acceptable. Even he knew that.

"So I thought I would come over here and sleep instead," Sherlock added, sticking doggedly to the same topic. "Are you going to have an afternoon _kip_ , too?" he added, fixing Rose with a boyish grin in an attempt to lighten the mood.

Sherlock thought his distraction must have worked, for Rose's face split into a broad grin in response.

"Yep. I'm dying to go to sleep. Just need to go to the bathroom first, then I'll join you."

She kissed his cheek, then slipped from the bed. Rose grabbed her dressing gown from the hook behind her door. Drawing it around herself and pausing in the doorway, she turned to Sherlock.

"I love you," she said, the corners of her mouth turning up in a smile. With a wink, she was gone, leaving Sherlock no opportunity to say anything at all.


	40. The Suffocating Chains of Domesticity

Rose wearily opened her eyes and her head spun a little. She tried to judge the time by the temperature in the air and by the amount of light filtering into her room. Her growling stomach and presence of pyjamas further confused her. _Is it morning, did I have dinner? A shower? Sex with my boyfriend?_

_Oh!_

Yes, yes she did, Rose thought, smiling to herself and rolling over so that she faced the middle of the bed.

Sherlock Holmes also lay on his side, facing her, fast asleep. It seemed the Consulting Detective needed to recover from his night on the town far more than Rose did. When Rose had returned to bed after showering, she found that Sherlock had nodded off. She hoped he hadn't felt too exposed when she had uttered those three words outside their normal context. She had made a swift exit so that he didn't feel obliged to say anything in return. The poor man, she thought, smiling to herself.

Rose silently slipped out of bed, and made for the bathroom. Once she'd finished, she entered the kitchen, and tried to decide if she felt like tea and toast with plum jam, as if it were breakfast time, or the vegetable soup she was intending to make them for dinner.

 _Vegetable soup,_ she finally decided, thinking she could always freeze it and keep for her lunches during the week if both she and Sherlock desired something else or nothing at all, as in Sherlock's case.

Rose had finished chopping most of the vegetables when she heard the sound of the bathroom door clicking shut. She paused her soup preparation to fill the kettle, then she set out two mugs for tea.

Not long after she had resumed chopping a couple of parsnips, she felt the warm presence of a Consulting Detective.

"I feel awful," Sherlock remarked, his voice all gravelly from sleep. He slid his arms around Rose and murmured into her neck, "Why didn't you stay in bed with me?"

"I was hungry. I need food."

"Food. Dull," Sherlock remarked, nuzzling into Rose's neck some more. He inhaled deeply, allowing her signature scent to flood his olfactory system—coconut-scented soap, and apple-pear shampoo. _Apple, pear, coconut, Rose,_ his mind chanted as a signal to his brain to release that all important dopamine.

"Look out," Rose warned, "I have a knife and I'm not afraid to use it."

She tried to continue with her task, but she also wanted to enjoy the closeness brought on by Sherlock's spontaneous hugging. She was quite enjoying his cuddly mood probably produced by his hangover.

"But how will you dispose of my body?" Sherlock murmured into her ear.

"Not everyone who commits murder necessarily wants to get away with it," Rose replied.

Sherlock chuckled. "Where's the fun in that?"

Succumbing to the practicalities of the situation, Rose gestured toward the kettle with her knife and said, "Why don't you make our tea? I won't be long."

She felt Sherlock stiffen as he straightened up. His arms remained around Rose, but he had loosened his hold.

At the forefront of Sherlock's mind was the determination to set something straight. When Rose had left the room after their frenzied afternoon love-making session, and had uttered those three words once more, Sherlock's stomach had flip-flopped. Dread—that's the feeling that had been invoked. Rose had seemingly let him off the hook that time by making a swift exit, but on the next occurrence, he was not going to avoid the awkward silence that would envelope them. Her face would be full of expectation, and he would not be able to deliver the goods.

"I want to say something first," he said, his voice pitched low.

Rose's skin prickled at the sudden disappearance of Sherlock's previously playful tone. She held her breath as she placed the knife down onto the bench. She wasn't sure why those words had momentarily filled her with dread. Or maybe it was how he had said it? Sherlock's loose embrace allowed her to turn around and face him.

"Please don't tell me you don't eat vegetable soup," Rose said in an attempt to lighten the mood. "I've spent ages chopping these."

"No," Sherlock replied unnecessarily. His gaze was full of purpose, making Rose's heartbeat become erratic. "It's about last night."

Rose's insides churned monstrously. "I know," she said, attempting to keep the tremor from her voice. "You were drunk, and you didn't mean it. It's okay," she continued, trying not to gush too much. "It's funny, really." She forced a tiny smile to her face, but she was only kidding herself and she knew it.

Sherlock's expression had softened, but his gaze didn't waver. "No," he said. "You're wrong." His eyes flicked away from Rose's face as he tried to compose his thoughts. He was supposed to have analysed the sentiment, so he could determine when and if he could alter his philosophical mindset enough to allow him to say it. His drunken state had bypassed that thought process, and now he was left with the consequences.

Sherlock brought his hands from around Rose's back to rest lightly on her arms.

"I was drunk, yes, definitely," he said, meeting her gaze again. "Not a state I'll be returning to in the foreseeable future, or any future for that matter. But you're wrong about the integrity of my words." Sherlock paused again as he carefully studied Rose's expression. Had all hope left her? Was she even breathing? "I did mean it, Rose," he stated, noting with a curious interest the subtle change in her eyes that told him she was _relieved._ "But I..." He looked away again, his eyes taking in the myriad of shapes and colours of the vegetables Rose had already diced. The words that were forming in the back of his throat all bunched together, forming an uncomfortable lump there. Sherlock swallowed hard and made a second attempt as he locked eyes with Rose once more. "I'm not likely to say those words again."

Rose's head was still buzzing with Sherlock admitting that _he had meant it,_ and she had to think twice to understand the meaning behind his subsequent statement.

"You're not going to say it again," she repeated, her emotions torn between the brightly lit joy she felt for his revelation and the shadow of disappointment that was cast due to his qualification.

"No."

"Why... I mean... I'm not surprised, really," she stammered, dropping her gaze. Of course she wasn't surprised. At the time she had initially confessed to being in love with him, she had already handed him a get out of jail free card.

 _I don't expect you to return the sentiment_ , she had told him. _This is something I wanted to say because I think it's important to let you know how I feel right now... I know you don't say such things, and I don't expect you to._

But he loved her too, she reasoned, and he had told her so, just the once. That should be enough for her. Shouldn't it?

Disappointment rippled through Sherlock at the thought that Rose wasn't surprised by his statement. She knew him better than most though, so why did he have an issue with her already assuming he wasn't capable of saying it again?

"It's not something that I would normally say," he explained.

Rose lifted her gaze and said, "I know, Sherlock." She flattened her palm against his chest, and affectionately patted him there. "It's fine." Rose took in a steadying breath, and stretched up to plant a brief kiss on Sherlock's lips. "Now make the tea," she added, and she turned around again before Sherlock could say anything else.

Sherlock left Rose, and stood just one metre away while he busied himself preparing their mugs of tea. It felt like they were miles apart in that moment, both of them lost in their own, but slightly similar, thoughts.

Everything was ruined, Sherlock thought. The goodbye ritual had to be shelved. There would be no joy in the one-sided declaration now. Both of them would know only too well that there was an unspoken reciprocation, but the air would be heavy in its absence.

 _Goodbye 'goodbye ritual,'_ Sherlock thought in sullen silence, as he dunked the teabags into the mugs.

"Of course you're going to have to learn how to say those words fairly soon," Rose said, as if they had never stopped conversing. She had slid the last of the vegetables from the chopping board into the pot of stock that was bubbling away on the stove-top. "At least the 'love you' part. It's in your speech remember?"

Sherlock look over to Rose, his brow furrowed. "What part?" he asked.

"The bit where you say how much you love John, and that you would never let him down."

"But I have no intention of saying that." Sherlock turned and leant against the countertop, crossing his arms in front of him, as the tea stood steeping in their mugs. "In fact, your whole speech—"

"Yes, you've deleted it from your computer," Rose said, one corner of her mouth curving into a smile. "Don't think I don't know about that."

Rose strode purposefully out of the kitchen and toward her bedroom. Sherlock straightened up, a small amount of panic rippling through his body. Rose re-emerged from her room carrying her laptop.

"Bring the tea into the living room," she said, making herself comfortable on the sofa. "We'll go over the speech again in here. I've emailed it to myself," she announced smugly.

Sherlock remained uncharacteristically silent. He would give Rose these few moments to revel in her triumph over him. Just those few seconds before she discovered...

"Have you deleted the email I sent myself?" she called from the living room as Sherlock poured milk into the mugs.

Sherlock cleared his throat then replied in the affirmative. As he entered the living room carrying their beverages, Rose asked, "And the file stored in the cloud?"

"Deleted."

"And..." Rose gazed toward the cupboard where she normally stashed all her papers.

"And I've destroyed the hardcopy, yes," Sherlock confirmed. He placed the mugs down onto the coffee table, and took a seat in the armchair, a good one metre away from the potential ire of Rose.

Rose left the sofa, and headed over to her handbag.

"Memory stick?" she called over her shoulder.

"Completely wiped," Sherlock replied before calmly taking a sip of his tea.

Rose retrieved the aforementioned memory stick from her bag, and strode over to the front door with it. She slipped her feet into Ugg boots and grabbed at her coat.

This sequence of actions confused Sherlock.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

Rose drew her coat around her dressing gown and made to exit her flat. With a hint of mischief in her eyes, she replied, "I'll just be a minute. I haven't got my key so let me in when I knock."

And before Sherlock could get another question out, she was gone.

_Damn! Hadn't he thought of everything?_

When Rose returned, Sherlock was using her laptop to trawl through the Ghost-date forum once again. He left the armchair to open the door when she knocked.

"Right," Rose said, slipping of her coat and toeing out of her boots. "I've got a copy from Tonya."

Sherlock's shoulders visibly drooped. _Tonya Small! He always missed something!_

Sherlock was ordered to sit next to Rose on the sofa, while she read 'his' speech to him. Sherlock loathed the bulk of it, but Rose assured him it was for the best.

"You made one huge error, and you don't even realise it," Sherlock told Rose, during the second read-through."

"What?"

"How is anybody going to believe a word of this, when I'm expressing so many uncharacteristic sentiments? Most people there will already know me as a rude, ignorant, obnoxious arsehole. How can I talk about love and how wonderful weddings are, and raise a toast to the happy couple when all I can think about is the death-watch beetle?"

"The what?"

Ignoring Rose's query, Sherlock stood and began pacing as he spoke. Rose had heard his theory about marriage before. When they had last worked on his speech, she thought she'd let him get it all off his chest just the once and that would be the end of it. Obviously the man still dwelled on all of the negative aspects of John and Mary's union and the ceremony that was to occur in honour of it.

"Okay, fine," she said, interrupting Sherlock's monologue about how he found weddings to be a celebration of all that was false and specious, amongst other things, in this morally-comprised world. "I'll add _some_ of the things you've said, so people can see that you've come to realise your own short-comings—"

"Sorry, what?"

"As long as you wrap it up in my nice prose."

"What did you say?"

Rose remained stubbornly silent as she tapped away at the computer. Sherlock brooded beside her, secretly thinking that Rose was somehow turning his speech into some kind of self-therapy session for him.

"And I've changed the bit where you say you love John and you'll never let him down," she said eventually.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes as he scanned Rose's screen.

"I can still see the word 'love'," he said.

"Yes, but now I have you speaking on behalf of you and Mary. See... ' _in short, the two people who love you most in the world.'_ I've distanced you from the sentiment a little. And I've got, ' _we will never let you down.'_ So it's not just you, okay?"

Sherlock scowled. It was still not okay, despite Rose adding the bit that he had thought of himself (a nice bit), stating that John was, ' _the bravest and kindest and wisest human being I have ever had the good fortune of knowing._ ' Rose had given him a kiss for saying that, and she had remarked, "That's really sweet, Sherlock."

He knew he'd told Rose a while ago that John had uttered those same words in front of an unseen Sherlock, at the detective's grave. She'd obviously forgotten. This would be a little thing between himself and John then. Touching.

The whole wedding was pointless; the speech, even more so. He would later adlib, _'today we honour the death-watch beetle_ ,' and perhaps he'd include the rest of his views too, without Rose knowing. If she wasn't going to be at the wedding, what did it matter what he added. And besides, he thought that statement was particularly poetic, and only the intelligent and worthy would understand the meaning behind it.

* * *

 _Right_ , Sherlock thought, opening the lid of computer number seven. _That should be enough_.

The Consulting Detective was simulating a room full of ghost-affected women for the purposes of eliminating unlikely candidates and questioning the remainder. It would aid in his Mind Palace wanderings if he had to physically move between conversations. John had arrived with not only his own laptop, but also Mary's, as requested by Sherlock. The day before, the detective-genius had baffled the doctor with the excuse that the chat forum would only allow one sign-on from a single IP address for the same user, and therefore Sherlock would need multiple machines to sign-on more than once.

Little did the doctor know that all of the computers would be connected to the same router, which would have the effect of offering a single IP address to the server on which the forum was hosted for all of Sherlock's user sessions.

But John didn't need to know that.

Sherlock had also commandeered his landlady's device, and a lucky thing that he did too. Mrs Hudson had informed the detective that the computer he used before his 'death', his beloved HP notebook, was stored in John's old room upstairs, along with the doctor's old notebook, and a previous notebook of Sherlock's. Sherlock had also acquired Rose's laptop when he had left her place that morning. He'd forgotten to ask her permission, as she had left for work before he'd risen from bed, and before he had had a chance to think about the day ahead. It didn't matter. He'd return it later that evening before she missed it.

_Rose._

The woman was a genius in her own way.

After they'd finished working on the speech, _to Rose's satisfaction,_ the remainder of the evening had been rather pleasant by contrast. He'd sampled some of Rose's soup— _not too bad—_ then they'd cuddled on the sofa watching telly like they used to, until Rose had to start her counselling work at 10pm. They moved to the bedroom, where they made love again, and Sherlock had fallen asleep while Rose worked beside him until 2am.

In the morning, Rose woke him with light kisses all over his face, just like he always expected and had come to enjoy. As he slowly stirred awake, thoughts of the dreaded goodbye ritual seeped into his mind. He couldn't fake staying asleep, and therefore avoid facing the sounds of silence brought on by Rose's sole declaration of love. Rose was kissing his lips now, and that _always_ prompted him to wake fully.

"Sherlock, I'm going now," she whispered against his lips.

Sherlock opened his eyes, and tried to telepathically warn Rose against following their ritual this morning. Of course, telepathy was a load of rubbish, but Sherlock didn't want fear to be present in his eyes in an effort to dissuade Rose from saying what she was about to say.

Rose's own expression was one of deep affection, though, so Sherlock held his breath and hoped that _The Henry VIII Hotel_ across the road would explode due to an act of terrorism, or something.

Rose appeared to be studying Sherlock's eyes, before a tiny smile played on her lips.

"Do you love me?" she whispered.

Sherlock's eyes widened minutely. What was she doing, he thought. But wait! This makes it all possible, doesn't it?

"Yes," he replied, in a husky _just-woken-up_ voice.

Rose's smile broadened, and she said, "I love you, too."

Sherlock's heart actually defied the laws of biology, and _shifted_ to the left. Just a bit. A little tiny bit. Well, at least it _felt_ like it had.

Sherlock's face lit up as if he were hearing the words for the first time. This _was_ a first time, though. The first of many more uplifting goodbye rituals where they would _both_ declare their love. Or Rose would declare Sherlock's on his behalf. A minor technicality, but _it would work!_

Sherlock's heart soared, and he pulled Rose toward him, and gifted her with a special love-fueled soft goodbye kiss.

The Consulting Detective had carried the emotions that this moment had brought with him all the way home. As he stepped over the threshold into his flat, though, he felt inspired enough to _want_ to solve the case of the Ghost dates. He cast all feelings aside, and flexed his mind.

John had arrived, Mrs Hudson had made Sherlock a late breakfast, and his mind was on fire. It was a lot like old times, although John _had_ remarked that Sherlock was ' _wearing yesterday's shirt.'_ How uncharacteristically observant of the doctor.

Disappointingly, it ended up being a case that wasn't worth solving. And it was with John's help in the end, that had brought them to the final conclusion. Sherlock had initially discovered that the 'ghost' was stealing the identities of corpses, getting the names from the obituaries, and using the deceased men's flats as his love nests for his dates. It was one man, whose assumed identity lived for a day. A _Mayfly_ man.

In answer to the question of _Why,_ John had provided the detective with a possible solution. The man was married. Trapped, bored, and clever. This was his way of playing the field, undetected.

It was all dull in the end, but at least Sherlock had one more case anecdote to include in his wedding speech. Rose had warned Sherlock against mentioning too many cases where Sherlock's brilliance outshone the groom's. This would do. He would've preferred using the Elephant in the Room case, except that one was classified.

The rest of the week flew by, and after a particularly stressful night at the Rehearsal Dinner, Sherlock found himself in his own bathtub, being pampered by Rose. She had taken to sneaking in, after midnight, on some nights, necessitated by the fact that she no longer worked at the stripclub, and therefore the routine of getting a cab to Baker Street on a Saturday night no longer existed.

Sherlock had managed to offend not just the one, but both bridesmaids who were present, _Cath and What's-her-name_ , along with the vicar at the dinner. John had remarked that it was a good thing Janine Hawkins, the maid of honour, hadn't been able to make it. She would've decked Sherlock for the comments he'd made. Mary had hummed in agreement, and Sherlock realised that her allegiance had made the evening all the more uncomfortable for him. Mary usually took _his_ side, not _John's._ What was going on here—was the wedding making mismatched allies of the bride and groom?

Sherlock dwelled on the night far more than he would've in the past, and he was glad when Rose had sent him a text, saying that she'd wait for him at his flat, instead of Sherlock going to hers.

"I don't see why I had to show up at all," he said, leaning back against Rose as she wrapped her limbs around him and attempted to lather his chest with a loofah. "The maid of honour got to skip it. Still haven't met her, by the way, so I imagine she's some kind of secret assassin."

Rose chuckled lightly at the comment.

"I think you should take a short holiday after the wedding," she suggested softly. She could feel Sherlock relaxing into her.

There was one week to go until the wedding. Sherlock's stress had remained at a manageable level until tonight. There were no more milestones left to accomplish, just the wedding itself. Rose felt that _she_ might need a holiday after babysitting Sherlock and his see-sawing moods in the lead up.

"Yes, I could show up at Mary and John's honeymoon destination," he quipped.

"Don't you dare."

"No, probably not. They're going somewhere _dull_ and _quaint_. And they're not even going straight after the wedding. Something about waiting for the weather to warm up. So much for tradition."

The couple maintained a comfortable silence, with Sherlock closing his eyes and leaning his head back against Rose's shoulder as she loofah'd his chest, neck and both arms. He hummed a couple of times in contentment.

"So where would Sherlock Holmes take a holiday?" Rose asked, after a fashion.

"Why would I need a holiday?"

"To have a break from work."

Sherlock scoffed. "If I wanted a break from work, I would stop seeing clients."

Rose traced lazy circles onto Sherlock's chest with the loofah.

"Tell me a place you'd want to go then, as a hypothetical, to get away for a while. Like you did at Christmas when you went to Tibet. There must be other destinations?"

"I'd like to go wherever _you_ are," Sherlock replied, almost immediately, and without thinking.

Rose hugged Sherlock tightly, and planted a kiss on his cheek. "That's a lovely thing to say." She held him for a moment longer before resuming her pampering. "My last holiday was kind of an obligatory trip—Scotland, for Christmas, with my parents. And before that... I don't remember. Somewhere in Sussex." _Somewhere in Sussex, with Jimmy Dodd._

Rose had lied to Sherlock. She _did_ remember that trip quite clearly. Corporal James Dodd was taking his R &R leave, so his sexual appetite was enormous—two weeks off after a six month tour. Not unusual. He didn't ask if she'd like to accompany him to where a few of his army buddies were gathering for a week of boozing and fucking; he'd just assumed she'd be his willing companion, to wait for him in a shitty motel room while he got completely smashed in the nearby pub. He'd return and demand sex, rough sex, after which he'd pass out.

Rose had been feeling guilty because the previous week, she'd taught Sherlock Holmes how to bring her to orgasm while they sat in his armchair by the fire. At the time, her affection for the client whose virginity she had taken, had been growing with every encounter. She was teaching a client, a man who was _paying_ her for sex, how to be a considerate lover, and here she was with her _boyfriend_ who was currently treating her like a whore.

To be fair to Jimmy, Rose had reasoned in her own mind at the time, he wasn't usually like that. Something really bad must've happened during his tour recently, that had caused him to want to wipe himself out night after night, forgetting who Rose was, and what she was supposed to mean to him.

Rose's heart ached at the memory of both the men in her life at the time.

"So where would Rose Sulford like to go?" Sherlock asked, breaking into Rose's thoughts, and unaware of her trip down memory lane.

Rose forced back tears. Here was Sherlock Holmes considering her needs once more. _He_ was her boyfriend now.

"I've always wanted to go to Paris," she replied, in a faint whisper as if she were a little girl who had been given permission to confess her dream destination for the first time.

Sherlock took a second or two to digest that information, before he stated, "So I'll take you to Paris then."

The tears that had been stinging her eyes, and causing pressure around her sinuses, finally spilled. Big blobby tears, that coursed a determined path down her face, before she hastily wiped them away.

"I didn't mean... You don't have to do that." Rose sniffed, a sound that prompted Sherlock to immediately sit up and turn around to gaze at her.

"Why are you crying? What did I say?" he demanded of her, in bewilderment rather than in an accusatory manner.

Rose tried to laugh at Sherlock's expression. Even now, he was still an innocent.

"I'm happy," she said, in between sniffs. "And you're so wonderful."

"Am I?" Sherlock asked, lifting a brow and regarding Rose with suspicion.

"Yes," she reaffirmed, reaching for him.

Sherlock leant forward, and claimed the kiss that he apparently deserved. He then turned around again and waved a flippant hand in the air while saying, "So carry on with your wiping thing again, since I'm so _wonderful_."

Rose laughed lightly, and mused that some days she may just like to thump him instead.

A contented silence descended on them once more, until Sherlock idly traced a hand along Rose's thigh underneath the water.

"Sex in the bath?" Rose whispered. "Or foreplay?"

"Foreplay only," Sherlock immediately replied, his eyes still closed. "You know my thoughts on sex in the bath, Rose. I made a list."

"Just checking."

The sound of swishing water combined with Rose's soothing massage, and the smooth texture of her skin beneath his fingertips, had a soporific effect on the detective. Rose could feel his body getting heavier against her, and his gentle caress of her legs getting slower.

"Are you going to sleep?"

Sherlock's eyes snapped open.

"Of course not."

A tiny laugh escaped Rose. She knew Sherlock didn't like to display any kind of weakness or show that he wasn't in control of a situation. It came as no surprise when the man abruptly sat up again.

"Let me do you now," he bid her.

Rose didn't mind at all. Sherlock stood, and turned around, before sitting down again, so all Rose had to do was turn her back to him, then lean against his chest.

"This reminds me of a movie," she said, as Sherlock began lathering soap onto her exposed skin.

"What movie?"

"A movie about a prostitute and businessman. They fall in love. He's an arsehole, and she has a heart of gold. There's a scene where they're in the bath together. Actually, it's quite awful."

Sherlock's closed-mouth laugh resonated through his chest, which vibrated against Rose's back.

"And you have a heart of gold?" he asked, his eyes glistening with mirth as Rose turned her head to look up at him.

"I didn't say I did. _She_ did. The hooker in the film."

"Well, you said _he_ was an arsehole."

"And you immediately identified with him?"

Sherlock paused his lathering, and murmured in Rose's ear, "Well, I'm not the prostitute."

He punctuated his statement, by planting a kiss on Rose's cheek. His breath warmed her skin and Rose relaxed against Sherlock's chest as he continued 'pampering' her. As his efforts dipped lower, Rose reminded him that it was meant to be a massage, at least initially.

"I'm moving right along," he informed her. "Taking it to the next level."

"Not yet. I want my massage first."

Sherlock did as Rose had ordered. He always enjoyed watching her submit herself to his ministrations anyway.

"And what happened in the end," he asked eventually, his mind drifting back to the topic previously discussed. "Did he stop being an arsehole?"

It took Rose a split second to figure out what Sherlock was talking about. "Yes, I believe he did."

"And did she stop working as a prostitute?"

Rose smiled to herself before replying. "Yes."

Sherlock was silent once more, quietly pondering how a movie could portray what had happened between him and Rose, an experience he thought was unique to them.

"Did any well-meaning friends tell them that he was now getting sex for free?" he asked. There was a tinge of bitterness in his voice, that Rose did detect.

"I don't know," she replied. "I don't think the movie covered that bit."

"Why, what happened?'

Rose sat up, causing Sherlock to stop his pampering. She twisted around so she could face him. He seemed unnecessarily worried. "Sherlock, they lived happily ever after."

Rose attempted to reassure him with a smile, but Sherlock only frowned at her.

"What does that mean?" he asked.

"It means, from that moment onwards, they lived happily together, content in each other's company."

Sherlock seemed satisfied with Rose's explanation, so he indicated that she turn around again. After another minute or so of sponging and loofah'ing, Sherlock stopped again. He wound his arms around Rose and spoke in a low voice into her ear.

"You know, Rose—I think we're already living happily ever after."

Rose turned her head toward him, her response caught in her throat. Sherlock was grinning broadly at her, and his eyes were twinkling.

"Yes," she replied, her voice hoarse with emotion. "I think we are."


	41. Today We Honour the Death-Watch Beetle

**Chapter 41 - Today We Honour the Death-Watch Beetle**

Sherlock used a pen to fish out the curious object from Rose's kitchen drawer—the third one, where miscellaneous objects were stored.

"Why do you have a pair of handcuffs in your drawer?" he asked.

Rose's expression brightened into a smile.

"They were for my old job," she replied, as she popped the milk back into the fridge after making their morning cups of tea.

"Your old job?" Sherlock asked dubiously, thoughts of a crime-fighting Rose flitting through his mind.

"Yes. My old job? The one where I used to fuck men according to whatever fantasies they have?"

Sherlock appeared momentarily bewildered about the need for handcuffs, until Rose reminded him of the time she had dressed up in a policewoman's uniform and had handcuffed him in the brothel.

"Oh," he remarked, realising he may have tried to delete that memory. He immediately dropped the handcuffs back into the drawer as if they were contaminated with the semen from random strangers.

A laugh escaped Rose as she placed their mugs of tea onto the dining table.

"It's fine, Sherlock," she said, attempting to curb her laughter. "I've never used that pair on anyone. I bought them when I thought I would branch out into being a hired escort. I thought they'd be a worthwhile investment."

Sherlock swiftly closed the drawer and shook his head minutely as if to shake loose the images that Rose's words brought—Rose dressing up and fucking other men. Other men, such as John Garvie.

"Why don't you take them home with you?" she suggested, a hint of mischief in her tone. "We could use them as a prop in Cluedo."

Sherlock furrowed his brow at Rose, before opening other drawers at random, and continuing his search for a USB memory stick.

_Cluedo._

They'd played _Cluedo_ several times in Baker Street now since that very first occasion. Sherlock discovered he rather enjoyed having three little cards dictate who, where and with what. It hadn't dominated the entirety of their sexual liaisons, but it did serve as an interesting change from the usual cuddling that preceded sex.

So far, they had been allocated _Miss Scarlett_ in the _Hall_ with the _Candlestick_ , which basically meant Rose masturbated Sherlock in the passageway outside his bedroom, and _Mrs White_ in the _Library_ with the _Revolver_. Sherlock had never imagined they could have sex in his armchair, mostly clothed.

In fact, they had remained clothed during all of their games of Cluedo, only making the required body parts accessible as necessary. Sherlock thought it would be strange to sit in his chair naked, so in that scenario, Rose had straddled him after she had already removed her own underwear, and had unzipped Sherlock when she needed to. And neither of them particularly wanted to remove any of their outer clothing when they picked _Reverend Green_ with the _Revolver_ in the _Ballroom_. With this combination, Sherlock had to do Rose on his living room rug. Much less chance of carpet burn if they kept their clothes on.

The last time they had played, the cards had been left on Sherlock's coffee table, and there had been a particularly anxious moment—for Sherlock only—when John Watson had stopped by to double-check the layout for the reception as per Sherlock's 3D model. Rose had already left in the early hours of that morning, so it wasn't as if they had been caught in the act. However, John had sank onto the couch, and stared in some amusement at the arrangement of cards left there. Sherlock's mouth had gone dry, thinking John could immediately interpret the meaning behind the cards as if having sex using Cluedo cards as prompts was a common occurrence in every household.

" _Professor Plum_ , _Dining Room_ , and _Spanner_ ," John had read, and Sherlock had automatically conjured up the memory of performing oral sex on Rose on the dining table the night before. He swiftly turned away from John and had busied himself in the kitchen.

"What are you doing with these?" John had asked, snorting derisively. "Trying to memorise every combination? That's not going to help you win next time, if that's what you're intending."

The idea that they could somehow use handcuffs in their game of Cluedo initially alarmed Sherlock, but he had placed the idea in a handy spot in his Mind Palace to retrieve and analyse later. Right now, though, he had a document to find.

"Not here either," Sherlock said, slamming the kitchen drawer shut, the fourth from the top, and the one that only contained tea towels and cling film. "I must've destroyed that one after you copied the file onto it."

"Sherlock," Rose said, sighing in exasperation. The man was as exhausting as a new puppy. He had managed to delete every copy of his wedding speech _again,_ as if its physical presence would force him to use it. Rose had advised him that if he didn't want to use it, he didn't have to. But deleting every known occurrence was unnecessary.

And Sherlock had advised Rose that having the wedding speech exist somewhere in the universe made deleting it from his Mind Palace a difficult exercise. But now, on the day before the wedding, Sherlock had changed his mind. He may like to use _portions_ of the speech after all, he'd said.

"And before you suggest it, yes I did break into Ms Small's flat when she was out walking her dogs the day before yesterday, and I deleted her copy too."

"Sherlock."

Rose looked about her, and finally pointed to the top of the kitchen cabinets.

"Up there," she said. "I think I threw a memory stick up there as well."

"Really?" Sherlock asked, his mouth quirking into a smile. "Just how many copies did you make of the thing?"

The detective grabbed a dining room chair and positioned it over by the cabinets. He stepped up onto it, and Rose knew that he had found the thumb drive by his triumphant, "Ah!"

Rose exhaled in relief, while Sherlock made for the living room, and Rose's computer, with the memory stick. Rose drained the rest of her tea, then stood.

"Right then. I'm off to work. I'm already late."

Rose was on closing, so she didn't have to start work at the entertainment store until 11am. As it was, she'd spent most of the morning helping Sherlock find a copy of his wedding speech, and arguing with him about it.

Sherlock didn't respond. He stared at Rose's computer screen with his brow drawn down in concentration. Rose wondered if he was now committing the speech to memory, like he said he could.

"You know, I also have a copy at work," she added, as she drew her coat around her.

"Mmm, no you don't," Sherlock remarked, without looking up from the computer.

Rose's shoulders sagged in defeat. She grabbed her bag and slung it over her shoulder.

"And how did you manage to get access to that one?"

"I bribed a security guard."

Rose turned from Sherlock, shaking her head in disbelief. She double-checked her bag for the keys to her flat, then retrieved them from the coffee table when she found she'd left them there.

"And since the wedding's tomorrow, I don't have time to make extra fucking copies of the document and hide them all over London. You're on your own next time."

Rose's swearing prompted Sherlock to drag his eyes from the computer screen. Rose usually swore when she was highly stressed or upset, and she had been both this morning. Was it his fault? Surely not. Didn't she know him by now?

"I'll be fine," he said, plastering a wide, closed-mouth grin on his face in an effort to appease Rose.

"Good," she said, unaffected, and making a move toward the front door. "Because this psychopathic fucking treasure hunt is really starting to get on my nerves."

Sherlock's skin prickled at the label he despised so much. He felt the beginnings of an iron fortress installing itself around his heart.

"It's a good thing I'm a high-functioning sociopath then isn't it," he remarked icily.

Rose's face contorted into a look of distaste. "What the fuck is that supposed to be? A diagnosis? From a psychiatrist in _this_ country?"

"I don't want to hear your psycho-babble right now, Rose," Sherlock said, as he redirected his gaze back to the computer screen.

"Well, you're going to have to," she snapped, standing rigidly by the door. "Nobody uses the term 'sociopath' anymore, and definitely not with 'high-functioning.'"

"Rose."

"You can't be 'high-functioning' _and_ a 'sociopath' because one negates the other, and besides—"

"Rose."

"There's a condition called 'Psychopathic personality disorder' and you don't have that, so why are you—"

Sherlock abruptly stood and said, rather heatedly, "I don't fucking care!"

Rose snapped her mouth shut. Sherlock almost _never_ swore.

The detective continued to glare at Rose, his blue-grey irises frosting over. He began talking in a steady, emotionless way. "It was given to me as a joke at university by a group of psychology students, okay? Your lot. They created it, just for me, how thoughtful of them. And most people accept it as a label to explain my socially unacceptable behaviour. It makes _them_ feel better if the reason I've called them an idiot is because _I_ have a mental disorder, rather than the fact that they are actually idiotic."

"But you don't have a mental disorder," Rose said softly.

"Thank you for your diagnosis," Sherlock said coldly, and he took his seat once more on the sofa, and resumed reading the screen. "You _did_ just call me a psychopath earlier," he muttered.

"I didn't call _you_ a psychopath. I said the treasure hunt was psychopathic."

Sherlock tutted, and clicked the mouse irritably. He said, without looking up, "Aren't you late for your pointless job that has nothing to do with psychology?"

There was a heavy silence, punctuated only by Sherlock tapping at the keys.

"You fucking rude bastard," Rose snapped eventually, and she was out the door before the remark had registered in Sherlock's mind.

"High-functioning sociopath," he murmured distractedly to an empty flat.

A split-second later, Sherlock snapped to attention. What had just happened then? Did Rose just leave without saying goodbye? In a flash, Sherlock was out the door. He flew down the stairs and found Rose two steps from the bottom.

"Rose!" he called in desperation.

Rose stopped and looked around; she regarded Sherlock wearily.

"I don't have time for this. I'm late already. For my pointless job that has nothing to do with psychology remember," she added with a hint of venom.

"Don't go like this," he bid her, lightly holding onto her arm. "It was a stupid thing to say. I'm sorry."

Rose's eyes glistened in the light. Out of anger or sorrow, Sherlock couldn't tell.

"Sherlock," she said, her voice tired and defeated. "You don't want to miss out on our goodbye ritual, I know that. I'm sorry, but I'm angry with you. I'm tired, and pissed off, and I just can't do this right now."

Her voice crackled toward the end, and Sherlock's heart sank.

"Come back inside," he bid her softly.

Rose slowly shook her head. "I need to go to work now."

"But you'll come over tonight, won't you?"

Rose looked away from Sherlock toward the street. Every muscle in her body ached, and her mind was frazzled, and she hadn't even started work for the day. She returned her gaze to Sherlock. His brow was raised in hope, and his eyes were huge. Puppy dog eyes. The eyes of the exhausting, hyperactive puppy.

"No," she said quietly. "I think I need a break."

Her words were like a dagger plunged straight through Sherlock's heart. _A break! Not this again._

"Rose, but, the waltz, the end bit, you were helping me road-test. You know I want to add a bit where John can dip Mary. It's all about the dipping. We were going to practise dipping. And the suit. You wanted to see me in my suit. And you know I don't care what the button hole flower thingy looks like. I may even carelessly shove it into my pocket. What about the speech? I might accidentally delete it before I commit it to memory. And you were going to tell me how to make polite small-talk with the bridesmaids without offending them, and..." Sherlock was reaching, and he knew it. He drew in a steadying breath, while Rose continued to study him. "Rose," he said, trying again. "Don't you ever want to see me again? I thought we were living happily ever after?"

Rose's face softened, and her eyes filled to the brim. "Sherlock, I want a break from the wedding planning, and you, while you're doing all this. And no, this time it's not because I had a bad day at work. I really don't want to see you until after wedding, okay? Is that so selfish of me? You've finished composing the waltz, for fuck's sake. If you want to change it the day before the wedding, you can road-test it yourself. And if you don't know how to make small talk without offending strangers by now, I'm not going to be able to help you in just one evening."

Sherlock visibly slumped. Rose wasn't happy with him. She didn't want to spend any time with him or help him with the wedding preparations. She was sick of his company. He would never get sick of her company. How was this even possible.

"Sunday," Rose added, when Sherlock didn't respond. "Come over when you get back from Sutton Mallet, if you like."

Sherlock only received a faint hit of apple-pear shampoo as Rose quickly narrowed the gap between them and gave him a peck on the cheek.

"I love you," she hastily bid him, and then she had descended the last two steps and was away from the building.

Sherlock's heart thumped dully in his chest. Rose hadn't asked him if he loved her! She wouldn't get her fix for the day, not that Sherlock was feeling particularly uplifted at that moment. He knew he couldn't go after her and leave the shadows of the stairwell to join her in the street. This would upset Rose even further—the possibility of being spotted in the company of Sherlock Holmes.

With a heavy heart, Sherlock ascended the stairs. He packed up his things, emailed the wedding speech to himself, and left Leinster Gardens. He had also pocketed the handcuffs, just in case.

* * *

Sherlock didn't spend the night working on his composition, and he had already memorised his speech. He sat brooding in his armchair for hours, and in the early evening Mrs Hudson had brought him a pot of tea and had patted his hand affectionately and wordlessly. Sherlock understood what that gesture had meant, and it irritated him all the more. He knew his landlady erroneously assumed that Sherlock was dwelling on John Watson's wedding, as if he were upset by the notion that he and his best friend were parting company forever.

The only reason Sherlock would now be upset about the wedding was because it may be the cause of Rose breaking up with him.

The next morning, Sherlock rose early, realising that he had one last chance to fix the waltz to his satisfaction. He would have to record the new version, and road-test it himself.

When Mrs Hudson gleefully interrupted him, he was more snappish than usual. Despite having the mystery of the regular appearance of his morning tea cleared up, he took particular offence at her implying that he wouldn't know what marriage was like because "you always live alone." What rubbish. He felt like retorting that he practically lived with Rose, but then he remembered that Mrs Hudson knew Rose as his therapist, and the landlady would think he really was a head-case then. It was much easier to turn the tables on the older woman and disparage her own relationship.

Besides, thinking about Rose made him even less tolerant for Mrs Hudson's witless babble than usual.

When his landlady continued blathering some pointless nonsense regarding a friend of hers, Sherlock knew it was time to dismiss her. His thoughts kept drifting to Rose, so when Mrs Hudson lamented, "who would leave a wedding early, so sad," Sherlock's stomach had twisted. _He_ had originally intended leaving the wedding early himself, because Rose was supposed to be waiting for him in a nice little bed and breakfast they had both found—the area was full of them—approximately 500m from the B &B where the wedding reception was being held.

His plan was to leave after the bridal waltz, when all the guests were excitedly swarming the dance-floor, and nobody would notice his exit. Rose would get to see him in his best man outfit, then they would spend the night and all day Sunday hidden away from the world, just the two of them.

After Sherlock had unceremoniously dismissed Mrs Hudson from his flat, he found himself staring at the empty armchair by the fire—John's chair, which had been claimed by Rose. She was supposed to have sat there the night before, tucking her bare feet underneath her, coaching Sherlock in his best man speech, and making some sweet comment about how thoughtful Sherlock was being. He expected her to flirt with him, after which they'd either retire to his bedroom, or play a game of Cluedo. He did have the handcuffs safely tucked away in the pocket of his Belstaff.

Sherlock had been planning John and Mary's wedding for the better part of five months. Everything was going to run like clockwork, and the day would turn out perfectly for the bride and groom. But what about him, the best man? The one thing he had wanted out of the day, was to look forward to the end of it, when he would have the pleasure of Rose's company out of London. But now he didn't have that. The day was going to be one huge battle for him, and he hoped he'd at least come out unscathed by the end of it.

* * *

Sherlock was taking a quiet moment in between the flashbulbs and general hustle and bustle of the guests outside the church. The service had gone without a hitch, he reflected in smug satisfaction. He had even taken the liberty of 'lightening the mood,' by pretending to have misplaced the rings before the start, when he was supposed to place them on the cushion that the ring bearer, Archie, was holding. John didn't appreciate his sense of humour.

Sherlock had successfully held his tongue throughout the entire service, and had refrained from making disparaging remarks about the whole institution of marriage. He had dutifully stood in the right place for photos, and managed to avoid scowling at the man behind the camera, whose background had not been checked.

The maid of honour, Janine Hawkins, had eventually sidled up to him when he was standing away from the other guests. Suddenly the photographer was there, in front of them, snapping their picture. When Janine remained by Sherlock's side, he steeled himself for the inane conversation he expected to have to endure, and hoped Janine wouldn't find a reason to "deck him," like John Watson predicted she would.

"The famous Mr Holmes," Janine said to him, a note of ridicule in her tone, as if she were mocking his type of fame.

 _Irish,_ Sherlock thought, immediately cataloguing. He intended remaining aloof so she would take the hint and leave him alone.

"I'm very pleased to meet-cha..."

_North of Dublin, specifically._

"But no sex, okay?"

Now that statement he did not expect. Sherlock gaped a little before stammering, "Sorry?"

"You don't have to look so scared. I'm only messin'" Janine replied, laughing. "Bridesmaid, best man..."

Sherlock objected to her remark about looking scared. Sex didn't alarm him. Her behaviour reminded him of Rose, in the early days of their sexual encounters, where she would say, without warning, ' _How about I suck you off until you come?'_ Janine's comment was of a similar vein—projecting a casual air when it came to sex. _Promiscuous then. She's says she's joking but there is an underlying invitation there._

"It's a bit traditional," Janine was saying, and her semi-playful punch to Sherlock's arm interrupted Sherlock's thought process— _Yep, definitely an invitation—_ and he glanced down at the place she'd touched his arm in disapproval.

"Is it?" he repeated, exuding an air of _definitely not interested._

"But not obligatory," Janine added.

 _She's disappointed her efforts at flirtation have amounted to nothing,_ Sherlock concluded.

But if that was all she was after tonight, the least Sherlock could do would be to offer her some likely candidates. He _had_ researched all sixty-something guests after all, and he could deduce anybody in a pinch.

Sherlock was bemused when Janine told him how useful he was going to be in determining a potential candidate for her tonight. So, he wasn't going to be rid of her that easily. Still, he hadn't been able to do a background check, so if she turned out to be the secret assassin, it would pay to keep her close by.

* * *

The adrenalin brought on by the evening's events had finally left Sherlock's central nervous system, but he still strode purposefully toward the cloakroom.

Just what were the chances of a murder being attempted at the very wedding attended by Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective? What was the man thinking? Sherlock had dispatched DI Lestrade to detain the offender, the substitute photographer, and Sherlock had one item in the pocket of his Belstaff that he thought would come in handy should the man decide to make a run for it when confronted by the details of his crime.

When Sherlock had caught the train from London to Newbury this morning, and took his seat, he felt a heavy weight land on the seat beside him. He felt inside his external pocket, and realised he had brought Rose's handcuffs with him. His coat now hung safely in the cloakroom outside the function room where the guests were patiently milling about waiting for the bride and groom to cut the cake.

The newly-weds were currently liaising with paramedics, who had just arrived to take Major James Sholto to the nearest hospital in Newbury.

The detective retrieved the cuffs, noting they were a model no longer used by British police forces, featuring a chain link instead of a hinge. Just where had Rose acquired them?

Sherlock's heart twinged as he finally had a quiet moment in which to reflect on Rose and her absence. Sherlock still hadn't decided if he was going to stay the night in Sutton Mallet, or take a train back to London tonight. He hadn't booked accommodation in the same bed and breakfast as the other guests. He'd kept his original booking at the B&B down the road. He preferred to be as far away from the rabble as possible. He'd heard them all arriving as he was inspecting the kitchen and catering staff. Together, they sounded like a herd of elephants.

If Sherlock left tonight, then he wouldn't be obligated to attend the wedding breakfast the next morning, despite John's enthusiastic prodding earlier in the day.

Sherlock exhaled deeply, stowed the handcuffs in his trouser pocket, and strode across the hall to find the bridal couple. It must be time to cut the cake.

"Oh, Sherlock," Mary exclaimed, as she rounded the corner and came face to face with the detective. "They've taken James now. John and I will check on him later tonight."

"On your wedding night, Mrs Watson?"

Mary smiled shyly at Sherlock's use of her new surname. "We have all night, and John won't be needing all of it."

Sherlock managed a rueful smile himself. He noticed Mary's eyes carefully studying him, and he knew she could see beyond the superficial when it came to interacting with other people.

"How's Rose?" she asked, taking her own deductive skills to a new level. "Did she end up coming to stay the night?"

Sherlock had already let Mary know a week ago that Rose was going to travel to Sutton Mallet after she finished her Saturday afternoon shift at the entertainment store so they could spend Sunday together. Mary had thought it was wonderful, and she had teased Sherlock that it was even a bit romantic.

Sherlock dropped his gaze and found the shine on his shoes to be fascinating in that moment.

"Ah, no," he said, shuffling his feet a little before lifting his gaze again. "I think we had a fight. In fact I'm sure we did."

Mary's face fell in sympathy. "Oh, Sherlock," she said warmly, and she reached out to rub his arm.

"She said I could see her tomorrow," Sherlock continued, "when I get back to London, so not that big a fight, but still, she won't be here tonight."

Mary's eyes glistened with affection for the Consulting Detective.

"You should ring her," she said. "Let her know you're thinking of her. And your argument is probably not as bad as you think. Sounds like Rose just needs some space."

Sherlock nodded imperceptibly and Mary squeezed his arm again.

"I'll go find my husband, if you could let them know to get the cake serving things ready?"

"It's all under control, Mrs Watson," Sherlock bid her, as Mary gave him a quick wink and hastened away.

It really was all under control, and Sherlock found himself impatiently hovering on the fringes as the wedding guests all vied for the best spot in which to take a photo of the happy couple cutting the cake and the staff cleared the floor of the tables and chairs.

And nobody appeared to notice that the official wedding photographer was missing.

Eventually Sherlock wandered back out into the corridor, phone in hand. Perhaps he _would_ ring Rose, he thought. She may not want to hear any details about the wedding right now, but it was practically over, and Sherlock could deduce what mood she was in so he could make a decision whether to stay the night in Sutton Mallet or hightail it back to London.

"Bit of a comedown after all that drama earlier," a female voice beside him said. "Fruit cake, marzipan."

Sherlock looked up and found that it was Janine. Looks like she decided to skip cake as well, he thought. Sherlock dropped his phone back into his pocket.

"You never know," he said, a tiny smile gracing his lips, "Anything could happen on the dancefloor."

"Is that a promise, Mr Holmes?"

Sherlock's expression didn't change, but he did wonder why Janine continued in her flirtation with him when he quite clearly showed that he wasn't interested.

"I was actually referring to John Watson and his appalling dance skills," he said, not rising to her coquetry. But he paused for a moment to allow her to chuckle at his jab at the groom. "But you have raised a good point."

"I have?" Janine asked, quirking one eyebrow.

"Yes. Seeing as we have one more obligatory duty to perform together, I think a rehearsal is in order."

"You've lost me there."

"Ms Hawkins," Sherlock said, holding out a hand to the maid of honour, "May I have the next dance?"

"Sherlock Holmes," Janine said, placing her hand in his and allowing the Consulting Detective to escort her to a larger reception area, "I'm beginning to think you belong in another century."

Sherlock led her to the middle of the floor and turned so that he faced Janine.

"Just follow my lead."

Perhaps he did nothing to rebuff her admiring glances; maybe he showed off a little too much. Perhaps the adrenalin that the evening's drama had brought hadn't really worn off, and the novelty of an appreciative audience for his deductive skills made Sherlock act a little cocky around Janine Hawkins.

But he did feel that the burden he held—for whatever responsibility he needed to take for upsetting Rose—had lightened a little, due to Mary's comment about Rose just needing space, and her suggestion that their argument wasn't as bad as it appeared to be.

He hadn't managed to phone Rose yet, but he only had one more duty to fulfil—the bridal waltz, and then he would return to London.

Mary had decided that they would skip the part where the bridal party joined the bride and groom on the dancefloor after the bridal waltz, as the other two bridesmaids didn't have official partners, and she didn't want anyone to feel left out. As an aside to Sherlock, she whispered, "And you should save the last dance for Rose, anyway."

The bride and groom may have waltzed a little woodenly, but the dip worked in the end, Sherlock observed from his position on the DJ's raised stage area. Amid the applause and Janine's overenthusiastic cheer, Sherlock threw his buttonhole flower to the maid of honour, hoping she would find his intended symbolism in the gesture: _that's all you'll have of me tonight_.

Sherlock even surprised himself with one more deduction for the night—the Watsons' pregnancy. He didn't mean to cause a panic-attack between the newlyweds. Mary's reaction was a cause for concern though, Sherlock thought, as they all stood shell-shocked at the edge of the dancefloor.

"Dance," Sherlock suddenly ordered the pair. "Both of you, now, go dance. We can't just stand here. People will wonder what we're talking about."

"Right," John dutifully replied.

"But what about you?" Mary lamented, her eyes full of sympathy for Sherlock. The detective deduced the meaning behind her look as Mary knowing he hadn't called Rose yet, and that there would be no dance partner for the best man tonight.

Fortunately, John interrupted that awkward moment with some welcome humour. As Sherlock watched Dr and Mrs Watson disappear into the crowd of wedding guests, Mary mouthed the words, ' _Call Rose_ ,' over John's shoulder. Sherlock gave the bride a tiny nod in silent agreement.

 _Rose_ , he thought, looking down in thought, wondering if he should leave now. _Call Rose, leave for London, face the possibility of arriving home, in Baker Street, alone._

Or he could...

Sherlock shook his head to clear it. He still had one more deduction left in him. Instead of facing the stifling loneliness of the B&B cottage, or the long train journey home, he could lend his skillset to Janine one more time.

Sherlock immediately took in his surroundings, and searched the dancefloor full of revelling wedding guests for the maid of honour. He spied her in the far corner, and took a couple of steps in her direction. When Janine caught his eye, her face lit up, and she gave him a double-thumbs up, before indicating the unseen dance partner in front of her. Sherlock realised in quick-time, that Janine had hooked up with the comics and sci-fi geek that the detective had identified as a candidate for her earlier, during his impromptu wedding speech/potential murder investigation. Sherlock concluded that she no longer required his special talents. It was time for him to leave after all.

He slipped, unseen, from the reception venue, and retrieved his coat and scarf from the cloakroom across the hall. Sherlock slowly wound his scarf around his neck, his heart full of regret for not contacting Rose earlier. He stepped out into the cool night air, and pulled his coat around himself, fastening the buttons and popping his collar against the light wind.

"The best man's leaving early? What will people think?" came a voice from the vicinity of the shadows of a nearby oak tree.

Sherlock stopped, and turned toward the shadows, his heart-rate elevating upon recognising her voice.

As Rose stepped out of the shadows, Sherlock quipped, "The best man has left to find his dance partner."

"That's unfortunate," Rose replied. "I'm pretty crap at dancing."

"I know a good teacher."

"Mmm, I'm a bit funny about dance teachers. How about a walk, and we can chat about it?"

Sherlock reciprocated Rose's smile, and he turned once more to face in the direction of the tree-lined path. He offered Rose his elbow, which she gladly took, and the two of them strolled away from the wedding reception arm in arm under a starless, moonless night.


	42. Sherlock Holmes, Put Your Trousers On

**Chapter 42 –** **Sherlock Holmes, Put Your Trousers On**

"I'm sorry I left you like I did," Rose said after they'd walked in a comfortable silence a few metres along the avenue in front of the bed and breakfast. "But I did mean what I said," she added, hugging into his arm. "I didn't want to see you before the wedding, but quite pathetically, I had to see you the minute you'd finished."

Sherlock stopped and turned to face Rose. Should he take his default position of assuming he was in the wrong when it came to the emotional side of relationships—the stance he used to take with John Watson? John would get angry with Sherlock's lack of empathy, then the detective would become defensive and bluntly inform John that there was no room for sentiment when he was working on a case—a notion he still agreed with.

But this wasn't a case. This was a relationship, a partnership, based on emotion. Two people who... _loved_ each other. It was new to him, and there was a good chance he was going to get it wrong on occasion.

"No, don't be sorry," he said. _Admit to being at fault,_ he told himself. He was doing that a lot these days. "I'm the one who behaved appallingly." He reached out and lightly held Rose's arms. His eyes were huge and round, his mouth down-turned. Contrition. "And for my penance, I told a roomful of people that I was a rude, arrogant, obnoxious arsehole."

A smile grew on Rose's face as she gazed up at the detective.

"Not a high-functioning sociopath?"

Sherlock's heart twinged. Now Rose was in on the joke, the farcical label assigned to him at university, his get-out-of-jail-free card for acting like an arsehole. Most people took that explanation at face value, when all he wanted to say was that he had an intolerance to idiots.

"No, not this time," he replied, his expression softening.

"So you used my speech?"

"Most of it," Sherlock replied, deciding to skip giving Rose the details of his additional remarks. "Yours was Part One. Part Two was off-the-cuff and a tad more interactive."

"Oh!" Rose exclaimed, her eyes widening in alarm. "You're not supposed to—"

"—milk a good speech, yes, I know. It wasn't quite like that. But let's keep walking." Sherlock turned to the path once more. "We should put some distance between us and the rabble."

"That bad, huh?" Rose asked.

"No, quite the opposite, in fact."

Sherlock automatically linked his fingers into Rose's as they strolled along. On reflection, it felt like a natural and comfortable thing to do.

Sherlock told Rose all about the attempted murder of John's former army commander, Major James Sholto, and how it related back to the Mayfly Man case.

When Sherlock had finished his narrative, ending with the final detail of handcuffing Jonathan Small to the luggage cart, Rose remarked, "When you started this story, I actually thought you were joking." They stopped walking as they reached the tiny laneway in front of the grounds. "After all the research you did about someone at the wedding potentially harming John, are you serious? Did this actually happen?"

"Of course it did, although the groom wasn't the intended target. Imagine all the possible combinations and permutations if I had determined from the outset that one person attending the wedding was plotting to murder another. In the end, all I did was solve the case of the Mayfly Man."

Rose was lost for words, and the pair continued walking away from the reception venue, plunging into the semi-darkness of the country lane lit only by the twin lampposts at the end of the driveway. Sherlock assumed that Rose was absorbing everything he had told her, and her next remark was going to be about how brilliant he was at connecting the dots of the previously unsolved case.

Instead, she stopped and turned to face him, her features only just distinguishable in the half-light. Rose's mouth curved into a smile and she raised an eyebrow, before asking Sherlock, "And how did you happen to have a pair of handcuffs on you?"

The corners of Sherlock's mouth twitched. Was this obsession with handcuffs typical of someone who had worked in the sex industry, or of someone like Janine Hawkins, who was forever searching for a shag? Was the use of handcuffs as it related to having sex much more common than he thought?

And now he was going to have to admit to Rose that he had been intrigued by the idea. The detective was all about research and experimentation after all. Did he have to spell it out?

"Well, yes, they were yours. I took them from your flat. I forgot they were in my coat pocket when I left for the wedding this morning."

Rose chuckled lightly at Sherlock's embarrassed confession.

"So, where are they now?" she asked.

"I think the D.I. may have them. I assume they were removed from Mr Small once they arrived at Newbury Police station."

"And the other set?"

Sherlock frowned at Rose's question. "Other set?"

"There were two pairs in my drawer. Did you only take the one?"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at Rose. "Why would you have two?" He couldn't see how someone who had their wrists handcuffed together and... presumably their feet... could possibly have sex comfortably with a partner. How was that logistically possible? Or did both participants each have their hands cuffed? Now that was getting ridiculous.

Sherlock saw a wicked glint in Rose's eyes before she moved closer to him until their bodies touched.

Twining her arms around the detective's neck, Rose whispered, "First I handcuff each of your wrists to a bedpost..."

"Oh."

This scenario sounded familiar to Sherlock. There was a file in his crime database stored in his Mind Palace about bizarre crimes of a sexual nature. _Bondage and something_. It wasn't alarming by any stretch of the imagination, just different. And now Rose had that look in her eye that told Sherlock she was full of purpose. Curious, he bent his head, feeling Rose's warm breath on his cheek. He brought a hand up to hold her lightly at the small of her back.

"And then I strip you naked..."

Rose raised herself on her toes so she could speak directly into Sherlock's ear, with her body molding more intimately to his.

"...and then have my way with you."

Sherlock's central nervous system slowly drizzled _desire_ into his core. Rose lightly nipped Sherlock's ear. His heart thudded in unison to hers as her mouth grazed his jawline before nibbling at the tender place where his pulse raced beneath his skin.

"You won't be able to touch me..."

She drew back until her mouth hovered beneath his, and she lightly brushed his lips with hers.

"But I'll do unspeakable things to you..."

With her lips, Rose traced a path along Sherlock's neck until she could whisper into his other ear.

"...or do nothing at all."

Sherlock closed his eyes briefly, picturing that sequence of events, while breathing in Rose's apple-pear shampoo and carefully noting the heat pooling in his trousers and radiating outwards.

When Rose drew back to gauge his reaction, Sherlock had blinked several times to recompose himself.

Dropping his head and speaking directly into Rose's ear, he rumbled, "And just how would you remove my shirt over my arms when my wrists are handcuffed to the bed?"

* * *

Sherlock was absolutely correct. The enormous blanket of clouds that had completely obscured the stars was just starting to clear. Rose could see that the pockets of inky blackness, dotted with pinpoints of light, were growing larger. The detective had estimated, upon gauging the approximate speed of the light breeze that intermittently cooled their cheeks and ruffled their hair, that the sky would begin to clear in approximately forty-five minutes.

"Are you warm enough?" Sherlock asked, as he threaded his fingers through Rose's hair.

"Mmm," Rose replied, nestling more comfortably into Sherlock's chest. "Are you?"

"Ah... nope."

"Sherlock."

"I already told you, it's only going to get colder. It's currently eleven degrees, Rose. By 4am, the temperature will reach its minimum of six."

"But this is romantic," Rose sighed.

"I wasn't agreeing to romance. I thought you wanted a place to have a quick snog."

A small laugh escaped Rose. She imagined that Sherlock thought that romance was a separate entity. Didn't he know that it was a series of gestures, emotions and situations in which they had found themselves on many occasions? Big Ben on New Year's Eve, the candlelit bathroom in his flat, teaching her to waltz in his living room, seeking her out in the strip club during John's Stag Night. The list went on and on. Rose had never in her life been _romanced_ more than she had been during the last six months with Sherlock Holmes.

"At least you promised me stars," she said, gazing wistfully at the sky overhead.

"And there they are. Can we go now?"

Rose sighed, and rearranged herself so that she was now lying flat on her back next to Sherlock, instead of cuddling into his side.

"Just half an hour more? We never get to do this in London."

"So you keep saying. Did I tell you about the leaning tomb at Hampstead Cemetery?"

Rose laughed again. She knew there was only so much crisp country air Sherlock could take. The last time they had the opportunity to spend outdoors together—semi-outdoors—was on New Year's Eve, and even then it was from the spectacular vantage point atop the bell tower in the middle of Westminster. So really, this was quite a novelty.

As they had strolled along the dark country lane, hand in hand, it had struck Rose that being outside with a very affectionate Sherlock Holmes was something she never got to do in London. Sherlock had been leading them the five hundred metres or so toward the B&B—quite purposefully after her little introduction into the use of handcuffs—but Rose had hinted that there was an empty field through the hedgerow. Sherlock had said that there was no way he was going to get his kit off in the middle of a field, in this temperature, and Rose assured him that that was not what she was thinking of.

She just wanted to lie down in the meadow, staring up at the stars with Sherlock, just the two of them, nobody else about, no sounds of London, and no prying eyes.

Sherlock had tutted and scoffed, but still held up the top wire of the fencing so Rose could climb through. He had taken off his coat and spread it out on the grass for them both to lie on.

Sherlock exhaled noisily.

"At least come back and lie next to me," he said petulantly. "You were providing me with a little warmth."

Rose shuffled back over to Sherlock, where the detective held her close, and folded one arm behind his head.

"So this Jonathon Small," Rose began, "... is he related to Tonya, do you think?"

"The thought had occurred—two psychopaths in the one family—but no. The name _Small_ is as common as _Little_."

Silence descended on the couple and Rose turned her head so she could gaze up into the heavens once more while Sherlock gently caressed her back.

"Ooh, there's a lot now," she remarked after a fashion. "What's that group called?" She pointed skyward, to a large hole in the clouds where a cluster of stars twinkled brightly.

"I don't know," Sherlock replied disinterestedly.

Rose lifted her body, and twisted around to meet Sherlock's eyes, as difficult as it was to make out his features in the dark.

"I thought you knew a lot about everything."

"Not if it isn't relevant to a case. People fill their heads with irrelevant nonsense. How would the knowledge of an arrangement of stars called _Sagittarius Rising_ or _Bill and Ben, the Flowerpot Men_ have any relevance in the real world?"

 _Or know that the Van Buren Supernova was only sighted in 1858_ , he thought ruefully, reflecting on the taunting game James Moriarty had played with him a lifetime ago.

Rose chuckled, then leant forward to press a kiss to Sherlock's lips. The cold weather was turning him into a grump, she thought with great affection.

Sherlock held Rose to him. Her lips were as cold as his, and he attempted to warm them both by deepening their kiss. He was very disappointed when Rose drew back, and lay back down with her head resting on his chest.

He supposed that this was a nice thing to do. Lovely even. _Romantic_ , perhaps. At least for Rose, it was. And he did strive to keep her happy these days.

"I missed you tonight," Sherlock said, before he thought to censor. Pathetic. Sentiment just bubbled through him like a fizzy drink these days, until they escaped his mouth involuntarily like a burp. He strove to explain himself, in a logical way, of course. "It would've been... preferable to have you come along... see how my speech went... have some dinner... the roast beef was tender and... juicy or something. Apparently. Or something was. Might not have been the beef..."

Rose rubbed a hand across Sherlock's chest, smiling in the dark about Sherlock's inadvertent admission and his subsequent scramble to mask the emotion with straightforward facts.

"Well, I'm here now," she said.

"There is the wedding breakfast in the morning, for those who are staying overnight. We could surprise John over baked beans on toast."

"No," Rose said softly, but firmly. "I don't think so. But you go..."

"No, Christ, no. I'm done with all this tradition. Just thought you might..."

He drifted off. Of course she wouldn't want to make an appearance at breakfast. How ridiculous—what _was_ he thinking? But he _had_ missed her company tonight, and after all the work she had done on his speech, he would've loved for her to have seen him delivering it.

Or perhaps not. He had insulted the vicar and bridesmaids together in one fell swoop. Probably a good thing that Rose hadn't been there.

Still, it didn't seem right that somebody who was so important to him couldn't accompany him as his plus one.

"So when's the honeymoon?" Rose asked, stifling a yawn.

"Next month, I think. They're deliberately being obtuse."

Rose didn't respond again, and Sherlock could tell by the drop in the rate of her breathing that she was falling asleep. Sherlock glanced at his watch; it was a little after midnight. He'd give them half an hour, before the temperature plummeted another couple of degrees, then they could go.

* * *

"Oh my lord. Sherlock!"

The detective's eyes snapped open and he immediately sat up. The frigid air pressing around him, and the stillness of the country field jolted him to the present.

"Christ," he murmured, before raking his fingers through his curls.

"We fell asleep," Rose said. She stood up, brushed whatever from her coat, then rubbed her arms.

"No, I didn't sleep," Sherlock replied groggily, as he, too, rose from their makeshift bed, his joints creaking with the cold.

"You _were_ asleep. You were even snoring."

Sherlock stooped down to retrieve his coat. "I don't snore, Rose," he said, shaking off twigs and leaves.

"How long were we asleep for?"

Sherlock peered at his watch, then pressed a button to light the screen. "It's just before two, so _you_ were asleep for nearly two hours."

He drew on his coat as Rose hugged herself, hopping from one foot to the other.

"God, it's freezing. It must be five degrees now."

"It's seven."

"How do you know?"

"I know these things. Come on."

Sherlock grasped Rose's hand and led her over to the fencing. Once again he raised the top wire a little for her to climb through. After hopping over the fence himself, they began to walk briskly along the narrow country road.

"Well that was..." Sherlock began, attempting to keep the chill from his voice, "… pleasant I s'pose."

"It was lovely," Rose said, her voice quivering. She struggled to keep up with the cracking pace Sherlock had set. "It's all so still. I can't believe it. Look at the stars now!"

Rose gazed upward as they walked. Sherlock didn't need to see them. He surmised he had fallen asleep while watching the last wisps of cloud drift away, revealing the huge canopy of constellations above him, before his own eyes had grown heavy.

They were approaching the avenue of trees that lined the path to the reception.

"It's well and truly over," Sherlock said thoughtfully as he gazed in the direction of the darkened hall. His breath frosted in the air and they stopped at the end of the path.

"I was actually on my way up to sneak a look through the windows, when you came out. I wanted to see if you were waltzing, but I think I missed that, going by the loud pop music I heard coming from the hall."

"We didn't end up waltzing... the rest of the bridal party... not on the dancefloor anyway." Sherlock then feigned a cough, and cleared his throat. He wasn't sure why the memory of rehearsing the waltz with the maid of honour had made him feel guilty in that moment.

"Oh, that's a shame," Rose replied, seeming not to notice Sherlock's remark, nor his nervous cough.

A thought struck Sherlock—a perfect way to end the evening. Although at two o'clock in the morning, he was rather pushing it to call it an evening.

"Rose, I have an idea. Come on!"

A few minutes later, Rose found herself nervously glancing about as Sherlock crouched in front of her, picking the lock of the door to the reception hall. She was reminded of the time he had enthusiastically broken into the empty house across the street from her—the house Sherlock now owned after winning it in a Poker match against the Clarence House Cannibal.

There was a click, then a snap, and finally a delighted whisper of a "Yes!" from the detective-genius.

"Come on, Rose."

Sherlock pushed on the door, and held it open for his reluctant partner-in-crime. He then fished out a penlight from his coat pocket, and told Rose to stay by the door once he'd closed it after them. Rose watched as the tiny light from Sherlock's torch danced ahead in the darkness. The detective crossed the floor toward a mass of black objects to the right.

Rose sighed and shivered. She rubbed at her ears which were aching from the cold. The room may have been heated earlier, she thought, but there was now a chill in the air. Just what was Sherlock up to?

Suddenly the room was brightened by two pulses of light emitted from the ceiling above the place Sherlock had disappeared. They swivelled and projected into the centre of the room, and reflected off a disco ball hanging from the ceiling. The room became a kaleidoscope of vibrant colours.

Laughter bubbled up in Rose's throat, but she dared not make a sound.

The room was almost as vast and clear of furniture as it had been when Sherlock had brought her here the day they were scouting the location as a potential reception venue. Rose could see pedestals, some of which held bouquets of flowers and others that supported candelabra.

It must've been beautiful when it was all set up for dining, Rose thought, and stunning if the candles were lit during the bridal waltz. She wondered from which end Sherlock had delivered his never-ending speech, and had solved a potential murder case. _Probably at the spot where he is now_ , she thought, recalling the layout Sherlock had designed in cardboard months ago.

"I'd light the candles," Sherlock said, as if reading Rose's mind, "but there are too many. So we'll have to make do with the strobe lights."

He busily searched for something behind what Rose assumed was the DJ's box, briefly glancing at Rose as he did so. Rose returned Sherlock's quick smile with one of her own, then she silently made her way toward him.

"No, stay where you are," Sherlock gently commanded her. He finally found the cable he was looking for, and plugged one end into his phone.

Rose now had an idea about what his plans were, and she suddenly felt awkward and embarrassed standing in the middle of an empty dancefloor, at two in the morning, in the venue of a wedding reception long finished.

Sherlock stepped down from the DJ's podium as the first bars of _Waltz for Mary and John by Sherlock Holmes_ drifted down from the speakers mounted on the corners of the ceiling. A tiny smile graced his lips as he extended a hand to Rose.

"I think you know this one," he said smoothly.

Rose remained frozen to the spot. They were going to do this here, now?

"If you would do me the honour," Sherlock bid her, in the patience and manner of a man well-practiced at enticing shy wall-flowers to the dancefloor in another century.

Rose took his hand and was almost swept off her feet.

Unlike the lessons in his flat, this time Sherlock remained silent as they glided around the dancefloor. There were no corrections, no impatient tutting or a disapproving shake of his head. Sherlock remained perfectly composed, his eyes glistening with affection and a smile playing on his lips, as he directed Rose around the floor.

Rose's eyes remained firmly locked on Sherlock's. She was far too tired to concentrate on the steps, which had the effect of working in her favour. She let Sherlock lead with small gestures here and there—a tiny press of his hand against her left shoulder-blade, or a push forward against her palm. Rose couldn't believe she was slow waltzing with the grace and elegance of a Regency-era aristocrat. She felt as if she were floating on air.

Sherlock's expression softened, and his smile broadened by degree. Creases appeared in the corners of his eyes, as they often did when his smile was genuine. He had saved the last dance for Rose. He hadn't left the wedding early after all. He had merely been searching for his dance partner.

He drew Rose in just a little closer so that his hand came to rest in the middle of her back. Less formal, more intimate. He dipped his head lower as the last three bars of his recorded solo violin performance floated through the air.

Their lips met on the final note. A soft brush of Rose's lips was all Sherlock allowed himself before he drew back.

Rose slowly opened her eyes, meeting Sherlock's gaze. Her pupils were dark, the irises moist. Her skin prickled in anticipation of whatever her dance partner had in store for her next, and she no longer felt the chill in the air.

"Wow," she said, her breath shuddering on the way out.

"Mmm, not bad," Sherlock replied, but his mirthful expression betrayed the nonchalance of his words. There was a certain satisfaction the detective felt for the reaction he had provoked in the woman whose previous occupation had given her expertise in the physical arousal of others. Look at her now, he thought. Pupils blown, pulse thready, and her breathing accelerated. And all because he had danced with her and had given her a whisper of a kiss. But he knew her physiological reaction was due, for the most part, to her emotional investment in him.

Rose still felt light-headed. Would she swoon now, or was that taking the period drama a little too far?

"Do you love me?" she gushed instead.

Sherlock's gaze re-sharpened. "Yes," he responded immediately.

"Then kiss me properly."

Sherlock bent his head to Rose, his lips hovering a breath away from hers. Rose had slid her arms around Sherlock's neck as his own arms banded her tight against him. He touched his mouth lightly to Rose's once more. Her lips tingled beneath his soft and achingly gentle kiss. Sherlock took his time, drawing out every response from Rose until he could feel her impatience. He increased pressure just a little, fighting his own urge to plunder. And then he was withdrawing, teasing her skin with his warm breath. He noted Rose's heavy lidded eyes and concluded she was in need of sleep more than sex.

He whispered, "And that's enough to be going on with."

* * *

Rose stretched languorously and took a moment to reorient herself. Sherlock had already left the bed; she could hear him in the bathroom. She lay on her side, curling her toes and then brought her knees up underneath the covers as Sherlock opened the door to the bathroom and strolled out. He was completely naked save for a towel wrapped around his hips. His face lit up when he saw that Rose was awake.

"Morning," he drawled, approaching the bed.

Rose rolled onto her back and hesitated to respond while she studied Sherlock's expression.

"Morning," she replied, finding him unreadable as he sat down beside her.

Sherlock leant over her, and pressed a soft kiss to Rose's lips.

 _He's okay then,_ Rose thought, her heart fluttering lightly at the warmth of his lips on hers. Rose was further reassured when Sherlock drew back, offering her a tiny smile.

They hadn't made love yet. There had been an issue upon returning to Sherlock's room after the last dance, and Rose wasn't sure what the morning would bring.

Despite the late hour, the pair had impatiently torn away at each other's clothing the minute they had entered the room. On their way to the bed, they had stumbled over Rose's overnight bag that lay in the middle of the room. They then had to stop while Rose explained just how her belongings had come to be in Sherlock's room already—a scheme devised by Rose when she was getting ready to depart London that afternoon.

"You said you were my what?" Sherlock had asked, his face bright with interest.

That Rose had outwitted whatever poor excuse for security protocols that existed at the B&B was both cause for Sherlock's admiration for his lover, and for alarm on behalf of both management and guests.

"Your personal assistant."

Rose had compiled a folder containing psychology notes and research papers to serve as a prop for "important documents", and those, together with her overnight bag, she had taken to Sherlock's B&B and had informed reception that Mr Holmes had left these in London, and that they needed to be delivered to his room. She further hinted at how angry the Consulting Detective would be should he not find these already in his room when he returned later that evening. The receptionist, who had already had a rather stressful encounter with the detective from London that morning, eagerly acquiesced Rose's request. That left Rose free to roam the village that evening unencumbered by her bag.

Sherlock's mind had kicked into gear, while his libido flagged.

"I'll have to have a word with management," he had murmured while standing in the middle of his guest room, hands on hips and completely naked.

"Not now," Rose had laughed, and grabbing his hand, she had pulled him toward the bed.

That gesture seemed to rouse Sherlock out of his Mind Palace wanderings, where scenario after scenario had presented themselves—guests could be assassinated through a bomb stowed in an overnight bag such as the one Rose had been able to leave in his room.

Rose was upon him, and Sherlock was happy to have her dominate for the moment. It wasn't until Rose had retreated from the bed and had grabbed both his and her scarves that alarm bells began to ring.

"A substitute for handcuffs," she had explained. "Shall we?"

When Sherlock had replaced his puzzled expression with one of curiosity, Rose took that as a sign of consent.

She sat next to him and fastened his scarf to the bedhead, then lifted Sherlock's right arm, drawing it above his head and began to secure his wrist. At the first feelings of restraint, Sherlock's heart rate became erratic. Adrenalin began to course through his veins, and he could feel his skin prickle.

"No."

It was one word, and it was spoken with such a definite yet calm finality that Rose immediately stopped what she was doing and looked down at Sherlock. He avoided her gaze, reached up with his free hand and loosened the loop around his wrist. Pulling himself free, he then sat up and swung his legs to the ground.

As he stood and moved way from the bed, Rose turned to him, with a query forming on her lips. When she caught sight of the now all too familiar scars marring the otherwise smooth skin on his back, it suddenly dawned on her.

"Sherlock," she said in a voice barely above a whisper.

"No, it's..." he said, gesturing vaguely and turning around. "It's... um..." Sherlock raked an agitated hand through his curls and still didn't make eye contact with Rose. "It's... fine."

"I'm sorry."

Rose planted her feet on the ground and stood up, her movements slow and hesitant.

"Don't be..." he responded, his voice rough and low, as he began to pace. "It's..."

Sherlock shook his head, as if to clear it. When Rose moved toward him, he said, "I'm fine." He brushed past her and disappeared into the bathroom.

Silence engulfed Rose, and she strained to listen for any kind of sound emanating from the bathroom. She walked over to the closed door, wondering if she should ask if he was okay. Would he talk about what he had just experienced then? Or would he strive to bury whatever memories their game-playing had triggered?

"I'm fine, Rose," Sherlock said, his voice floating through the door, jolting Rose out of her thoughts. He spoke calmly and evenly, and in a low voice, as if he knew Rose was just on the other side of the door. "You should get some sleep. I'll join you soon."

Rose's stomach muscles tensed and her eyes filled with tears. She just wanted to hold him, to reassure him, to let him speak or be silent in her arms, but ultimately know that she was here for him.

"Rose. I'll be fine."

He knew she was still standing there, so she moved away and sat on the edge of the bed. When one minute turned into five, she crawled to the head of the bed, then sat there, hugging her knees, and imagining Sherlock being tortured in far away lands—wrists bound to some kind of structure while he was flogged and God only knows what else.

Twenty minutes later, she was under the covers, and thinking about tiptoeing to the bathroom to ask if Sherlock was okay. But at that moment, she heard the shower turn on, so she lay back down again.

When she finally felt Sherlock's body curl around hers, Rose realised that at some stage she had fallen asleep. She stirred lightly, with relief flooding through her as she felt Sherlock's arms tighten around her.

"Go back to sleep," Sherlock had whispered. "I'm fine."

So when Sherlock had kissed her, gazed into her eyes, and had smiled that morning, Rose's heart had lifted.

"I thought you'd sleep in longer," he said.

"What time is it?" Rose asked.

"Just before ten. I've ordered you breakfast, but it won't arrive until eleven."

"Okay."

Rose was still unsure, and she studied Sherlock's eyes in silence as he straightened up.

He remained by her side and said, as if reading her thoughts again, "I'm fine, and I don't want to talk about it."

"But—"

"I don't need a therapist, Rose."

"I'm not being your therapist. I'm your..."

She paused, not sure of her 'official' title when it came to her relationship with Sherlock.

"Girlfriend," Sherlock said, finishing her sentence for her. His eyes glistened, and a warm smile slowly grew on his face.

Rose's heart stuttered, and she returned his smile. Sherlock slowly lowered himself toward her again, and Rose reached up to cup his cheek.

"Which means I care for you," she whispered.

"I know."

Rose's eyes fluttered shut as Sherlock's mouth closed over hers. Her skin tingled all over at the initial sweetness of his kiss and her lips parted in surrender.

Sherlock drew back again, and hovered a whisper away from her lips.

"We have an hour until breakfast," he murmured. "What shall we—"

Three sharp raps sounded on the door, accompanied by a low, gruff, "Room service!"

Sherlock knitted his brows together and straightened up.

"I said eleven, not ten," he huffed. "And I only called five minutes ago."

He stood, and strode over to the chair upon which his dressing gown was draped. He let the towel drop to the ground, then pulled his robe around him.

"That was quick then. What did you order me?" Rose asked, arching an eyebrow. "Jam on toast?"

Sherlock tutted and waved a hand toward Rose.

"Make yourself look decent," he chided, then he waited while Rose pulled the quilt up to her armpits. She had slept completely naked, not having brought along any sleepwear.

"No, that won't do," Sherlock remarked, thinking that Rose, with her tousled hair, and bare shoulders, still looked like she had been having sex only moments before.

He quickly grabbed at her overnight bag, opened it and rummaged inside.

"What do you have?" he asked, frowning.

"Just a dressing gown," she replied, throwing the quilt from herself, and making her way over to Sherlock. "I could just hide in the bathroom."

"No, it's fine."

He drew out Rose's familiar black dressing gown for her as three more raps resonated through the door.

"A bit rude," Sherlock remarked.

He headed over to the door, and waited for Rose to dress and slip beneath the covers again, his hand holding the doorknob. Fixing Rose with a broad, happy grin he turned the door handle. He quickly rearranged his expression so he could duly scold the impatient room service delivery person.

Upon opening the door, Sherlock was confronted with a chuckling John Watson.

"And you call yourself a detective," the groom laughed, clearly amused at the success of his silly ruse. "You didn't think I'd really let you get out of attending the wedding breakfast." John brushed past the stunned detective and strolled into the room, saying, "Come on Sherlock Holmes, put your trou—"

All air was sucked from the room, and the scene was frozen in time to be etched in the memories of the three players forever.

John and Rose locked eyes, and Sherlock remained immobile and silent by the door.

"Hello, John," Rose said as politely as she could under the circumstances.

John Watson's mouth snapped shut, and Sherlock bowed his head and exhaled.

John's eyes flicked between the woman he knew as a prostitute, and the familiar scarf belonging to Sherlock Holmes that was now tied to the bedhead.

"Holy fuck," he murmured, then he clenched his jaw, about-faced, and strode determinedly from the room.


	43. Uncomprehending in the Face of the Happy

**Chapter 43 -** **Uncomprehending in the Face of the Happy**

Sherlock's eyes met Rose's. Her expression remained largely impassive until she blinked. She attempted a half-smile that didn't quite meet her eyes. Sherlock's stomach twisted at the sadness he detected there, the veiled disappointment. His expression softened in response, before he stepped out onto the portico, closing the door gently behind him. He was quite conscious of the fact that he was still clad in his dressing gown with nothing else at all on underneath.

John Watson—who had begun pacing, the fingers on his left hand twitching in agitation—whirled around. He took a step toward Sherlock and held himself rather stifly.

"I suppose I should be thankful you didn't install her on the top table," the doctor remarked icily.

Sherlock's chest tightened at the comment, and he inhaled sharply.

"John," he began, and he held a hand up in a placatory manner. "Before you—"

"Since you didn't, I guess it's none of my business... what you do, and with whom, in your own time."

Sherlock felt a prickling of his skin. Why should he feel guilty about this? Why should he accept John Watson's disapproval? It was John who had barged in, uninvited, and who had interrupted a tender moment between Sherlock and the woman he loved.

"No," Sherlock replied, meeting John's icy gaze with his own grey frostiness. "I suppose it's not."

John drummed his fingers on his thigh and stared into the distance as if reconsidering his words. He shook his head minutely again, and cleared his throat. When he faced Sherlock once more, the detective had narrowed his eyes at him in readiness.

"So, I was going to say this during my groom's speech, but since we had a potential murder to investigate, I didn't get to make a speech. So I intended saving it until the wedding breakfast instead." John sighed when Sherlock remained motionless, the detective only blinking once to signal his attentiveness. "It's quite clear now why you weren't going to show up this morning, so I'm saying this here and now before Mary and I leave for our honeymoon in a couple of hours."

Sherlock furrowed his brow at this bit of information.

"Yes, I know," John continued, noting the detective's quizzical expression. "We told you we weren't leaving for a month. That was to put you off... you know... planning our honeymoon. Not that we don't..." John drew his mouth into a thin line. "Look, all I want to say is, we—Mary and I—appreciate all you've done for us, in organising our wedding. You put in a great deal of effort, and demonstrated... thoroughness..."

Sherlock continued to scrutinise his friend, who was now obviously reciting the words from a not-so well-rehearsed speech. Sherlock didn't need to hear this. He didn't want John's thanks and acknowledgement for a project Sherlock had only undertaken in order to see that it was completed to the highest possible standards. He didn't want to hear words of praise while receiving looks of disdain. He let John's words wash over him, until they died away, with the doctor concluding his speech with his customary clearing of the throat.

Sherlock no longer wanted to talk about the wedding, and he cared less about the honeymoon.

"Whatever you know about Rose," he began, as if John hadn't just rambled out a poor excuse for a thank you speech, "this is not what you think."

"I... I don't want to know, Sherlock. Really." John backed away displaying the palms of his hands in protest. "You should probably get dressed," he suggested, dropping his gaze to his best man's bare legs. "Now, if you'll excuse me," he added, a coldness creeping back into his voice, "I have guests to attend to."

The doctor spun on his heels, and marched away and out of sight when he rounded the corner of the building. Silence descended on Sherlock, and a wave of disappointment rippled through him. He hadn't defended Rose. He hadn't enlightened John about his relationship. He had stood there and let John Watson laud it over him as king of the high moral ground once more.

Sherlock clenched his jaw as his heart thudded dully in his chest. A gentle breeze caressed his legs and he shivered. Turning back to the door of his room, he reached for the door knob then realised that it would've latched automatically. Sherlock rapped sharply on the wood. He bowed his head and rubbed his fingertips over his brow while he waited for Rose to let him back in.

When she opened the door, she smiled at him, her eyes glistening with warmth.

"Room service?" she joked, and Sherlock responded with a weak smile.

He followed Rose into the room, noting that she had hastily changed out of her dressing gown and into street clothes while he had been outside with John.

"Everything sorted?" she asked, with only half a smile this time, as if she knew that it couldn't have been based on Sherlock's expression.

"I barely managed to get a word out."

Rose shrugged and reached for both Sherlock's hands as she stood in front of him.

"John's reaction, the look on his face," she said, "was pretty much what I expected to receive."

"It may be what you expected, Rose, but not what you deserve. I'm sorry."

"I didn't let you tell John about me at the time you wanted to," Rose explained. "You have nothing to apologise for."

 _I didn't try hard enough to make him listen_ , Sherlock thought.

Sherlock turned from Rose and walked across the room, stooping to retrieve the items of clothing he had shed the night before. Rose watched Sherlock hang up his wedding attire in silence. Of course it was her fault. Sherlock could've had a proper conversation with his best friend about his new found relationship ages ago. Of all the places and situations where John Watson had to stumble upon the couple it had to be here, when they both had been semi-naked and she had lain in bed, her rightful place as a sex worker. And he had to spot the fucking scarf tied to the bedhead. _Nice prop there, Rose._

John Watson didn't encounter them when Sherlock was teaching Rose how to waltz. He hadn't witnessed Sherlock spinning Rose around in the entrance to the strip club, then hear his friend declare his love for her. Doctor Watson wasn't there the night Sherlock broke down and cried on her shoulder when he realised he'd made a mistake in paying her to have sex with him. John didn't see the roses, the greeting cards, the candles around the bathtub, or the fireworks from Big Ben. What Sherlock's best friend did see was the aftermath of sex, or the precursor to having sex. Presumably paid sex. With a prostitute.

Of course it was her bloody fault. She did get the reaction she deserved.

Sherlock untied his dressing gown sash, then slipped the robe from his shoulders, dropping it to the ground. Rose grabbed at her folder of papers and stowed it into her overnight bag while Sherlock retrieved his trousers from the wardrobe and looked around distractedly for his underwear. Rose found them by the table legs.

"Here," she said, lightly tossing them to Sherlock. She avoided looking at his naked form. She wasn't here for the sex. Of course not.

A tiny memory settled itself in her mind, before it grew larger and took on a new meaning—the time she had confessed to Sherlock at having snogged John Watson, and telling the doctor the morning after that she was really a prostitute. Sherlock had laughed, and had remarked that it would be funny if he were to bring Rose to the wedding as his plus one. _John will think I paid a prostitute to be my guest at his wedding_ , Sherlock had said, while trying to maintain a serious expression. _Entirely inappropriate… although, that would also be funny._

Rose huffed a small laugh at the memory of the smile playing on Sherlock's lips at the time, and of the Consulting Detective quaking with laughter. He could see the humour in the situation, so why couldn't she?

Sherlock looked up from his task of fastening his shirt buttons, his brow furrowed at Rose's reaction. Rose could no longer contain her mirth. She turned from Sherlock as she continued to chuckle.

"What?" Sherlock asked.

He moved toward Rose as she gestured towards the bed, her shoulders trembling in silent laughter.

"You," she replied, turning to face Sherlock. Her eyes were moist and her mouth curved into a smile. "Sherlock Holmes hired a prostitute for the weekend." Her subsequent light laughter filled the air, and Sherlock couldn't help but chuckle along with her. "John," she said, and Sherlock gathered her up in his arms, his own eyes shining with affection.

"He was a bit upset," Sherlock volunteered.

Rose's smile faltered, but she added, "He'll be okay though, won't he?"

Sherlock continued to smile at Rose in reassurance. "The man forgave me for faking my own death. I'm sure he'll get over this eventually. He may rant and rave to Mary for a bit..."

"Mary." Rose raised her eyebrows in hope. "She'll at least set him straight, won't she?"

Sherlock bent his head toward Rose and drew her in tightly. Mary Watson, their confidante. If anyone could talk sense into the ex-army doctor, she was the one most qualified.

"I'm sure she will."

* * *

With the knowledge that the remaining wedding guests had departed by coach to Newbury, and the last of his duties complete, Sherlock was able to return to the cottage and finally make love to Rose. He had left her in their accommodation to wait for the arrival of her breakfast, while he double-checked that the additional catering staff and the DJ had all packed up and departed without incident, and that the transport for the guests was going to be on-time. He managed to avoid the newly-weds during these duties, deciding to trust in Mary Watson to assume the role of his and Rose's champion.

They lay in bed, post-coitus, with Sherlock threading his fingers through Rose's hair. The early afternoon stretched before them, since Sherlock had organised a late check-out and the second coach out of Sutton Mallet wasn't due for another two hours.

"So Paris it is, then," Rose said, as she smoothed the palm of her hand over Sherlock's bare chest.

"That's entirely up to you."

Rose felt giddy with excitement. Obviously John and Mary's honeymoon was first and foremost on the detective's mind when he brought up the subject, for the second time, reminding Rose of his promise to take her on a holiday. Paris had always been her dream destination, as she had confessed to him during their bubble-bath together over a week ago. While she tried to convince Sherlock that he was under no obligation to take her anywhere, he remained insistent. Rose was touched that he had even remembered the conversation in the bathtub.

"I'll have to give notice at work, so it can't be for a little while," she said.

Sherlock hummed in agreement, his eyes closed. He was in danger of falling asleep under Rose's soft caress and due to the broken sleep they'd had last night.

"And I'll have to get a passport, so there's that."

Sherlock's eyes snapped open.

"You don't have a passport?"

Rose turned to look up at Sherlock, her chin resting on his chest.

"No, why would I?" she replied. "I've never been abroad. I've hardly been anywhere."

Sherlock tutted and furrowed his brow.

"Well this removes the spontaneity of the trip," he bemoaned.

"I'm not in a position to go on holiday at the drop of a hat."

"Clearly."

They were silent again as Rose lay her head back down, idly caressing Sherlock's chest as she determined an optimal time for her to take leave.

"Uni starts in September, so some time before then," she remarked, mostly to herself, but Sherlock heard her and clucked his tongue again. Rose continued with, "And I think you're meant to allow six weeks for a passport to be processed anyway."

"Not really," Sherlock countered. "My brother could fast-track the process for you."

Rose regarded Sherlock's offer in silence. There was no way she'd accept any help from Sherlock's strange, overbearing brother. One encounter with the government official was enough to disturb her for a lifetime.

"No, I think the end of August will be good, so that gives me plenty of time to get a passport."

Sherlock exhaled noisily. "Fine," he said resignedly. "I was actually thinking tomorrow, but if you can't manage to get away until August..."

Rose chuckled lightly. If only she were in a position to leave everything behind and jet off to Paris tomorrow. And Paris in the spring was supposed to be very romantic. She turned her head once more and looked up at Sherlock. He was doing his best to look sullen, so she rose up onto an elbow and narrowed the gap between them.

"Do you love me?" she whispered, only a breath away from his lips.

"Maybe."

A tiny laugh escaped Rose, and she pressed her lips to Sherlock's pout anyway. He was a man of many moods, fake or not.

She drew back again and added, "Because I love you."

Sherlock had narrowed his eyes, as if to convey his disinterest.

"Then lie down," he bid her, "and do nice things to me again."

Rose's face split into a smile, but she lay down dutifully anyway. She was also enjoying Sherlock's attentiveness, and he resumed carding his fingers through her hair when she drew lazy circles around his chest.

Sherlock's head was buzzing, his mind failing to quiet, despite the almost fullness of his heart due to the comforting presence of his lover. He should've been in a state of blissful content, or contented bliss—one or the other, if not for the ache in his chest as a result of John Watson's reaction earlier.

Sherlock drew in a deep breath as he pondered what John saw when he found Rose in Sherlock's bed. The last time John had laid eyes on Rose was at his stag night in the strip club. So Rose still worked in the adult entertainment industry—that would've been the last bit of information John had on her. He would've assumed Rose was still a service provider, a commodity, not a human being, and certainly not a woman Sherlock Holmes was in love with.

 _No, no, no_ , John had drunkenly insisted that night, when he spied Sherlock holding Rose's hand. _You can't take them home with you._

_Them._

_Strippers._

Would John have concluded that Sherlock had recommenced his earlier arrangement with the sex worker since 'bumping into her' in the club? Why would he believe anything to the contrary? The doctor didn't have any other data to draw upon. If he had stormed back to his new wife that morning, and told her of his encounter, then Mary would've explained to him the real relationship between the detective and his companion, wouldn't she?

Sherlock decided that it wouldn't do to speculate any longer. The Watsons had left for their honeymoon, and he would just have to wait until they returned, whenever that was, to find out John's position.

The rest of Sunday passed without incident. Sherlock and Rose took the coach back to Newbury, as individuals. They did text each other now and again as they sat across the aisle from one another, and exchanged lingering looks and tiny smiles. When they alighted at Newbury station, they both then caught the train to London's Paddington Station. It was here that they parted ways, with Sherlock catching a cab to Baker Street and Rose choosing to walk the ten or so minutes to Leinster Gardens.

Sherlock had told Rose that he probably wouldn't get to see her until much later that evening. He assumed his landlady would be buzzing about on a post-wedding high, and that she would cook dinner for him, and possibly bustle around him straightening this and that as if spending twenty-four hours away from Baker Street had meant that the place had fallen into disrepair.

Mrs Hudson did not disappoint. Mr Chatterjee had sent up a Butter Chicken dish that Mrs Hudson shared with Sherlock. The detective let her words vaporise in the air around him—her opinions about the church service, the floral arrangements, the attempted murder, and the main course—until she mentioned how impatient John appeared to be at breakfast.

"I expect he was keen to get away and start their honeymoon. So romantic," the older woman sighed. "Of course, when Frank and I got married..."

Sherlock tuned out again. So John was probably agitated all throughout breakfast, he surmised.

There was one good thing to come out of John catching Rose in Sherlock's bed—Rose was no longer as hesitant to spend her evenings and weekends in Baker Street. It didn't matter as much now if she were to bump into John Watson, she'd told Sherlock one night as they lay snuggling on his couch. John had already given her 'the look,' so it couldn't possibly get any worse than that.

Sherlock and Rose alternated between their residences without too much thought or negotiating. Sometimes Rose would spend all night at Baker Street with no sign of the detective until the early hours, and other times Sherlock would hang out at Leinster Gardens, watching telly, when Rose had gone to the pub straight from work to have a few drinks with her colleagues. Sherlock only had that niggling feeling of discomfort whenever Rose spent time with Tonya Small, walking the older woman's dogs with her, or having a Sunday afternoon tea in the Clarence House Cannibal's flat upstairs.

Sherlock did wonder how John was faring, and he caught himself a few times categorising new cases as _John-worthy_ and _Not-John-worthy_ , as if he should only take on the _John-worthy_ ones so he'd have an excuse to contact his friend.

When one week turned into two, and Sherlock had just closed the door on a client, having solved the dull mystery of a cheating wife, the detective decided to send a text to John Watson. Clear the air.

 _Wandsworth Prison escapee_ , he typed. _Possibly hiding out in pub. Could be dangerous. —SH_

 _There,_ he thought in satisfaction, as he dropped his phone into his jacket pocket. _A dangerous criminal on the loose. Right up John's alley._

The Wandsworth Prison escapee had been in the news all week. Sherlock had no idea where he could be. Wouldn't stop the pair of them going for a wonder around south London though, would it?

Sherlock heard nothing back from John after waiting two days. On Monday morning he rather insensitively shook Rose awake. She was have a late sleep-in since she wasn't on opening the entertainment store that day.

"Ring for an appointment," Sherlock was saying as Rose slowly emerged from a sleep-induced fog.

"What?"

Sherlock thrust a phone in front of her face. It was on Speaker mode and she could hear the number on the other end ringing.

"What?" she croaked again, and she slowly pulled herself up into a semi-sitting position.

"Ask for an appointment," he said again, and when the person at the other end answered the phone, Sherlock lowered his voice and whispered, "with Doctor Watson."

Rose was still far too sleepy to question Sherlock's demands of her, and there was clearly someone on the other end of the phone who was waiting for a response.

"Can I make an appointment with Doctor Watson please," Rose asked. Sherlock gave her a lopsided smile in satisfaction of Rose's poorly-sounding voice.

"I'm sorry. Doctor Watson is away until next Monday," came the reply from the surgery's receptionist, clearly not Mary Watson. "Would you like to see Doctor Verner instead?"

Sherlock shook his head at Rose, so she replied, "No thank you."

Upon ending the call, Sherlock stood up and swept out of his bedroom. Rose rolled over and promptly fell back asleep.

If Sherlock had thought carefully about the information he had gleaned from that one phone call, he may have realised there was still the possibility that the Watsons had in fact returned to London, and that John was merely taking time off work. It wasn't until Thursday morning, when Sherlock was rushing downstairs, after being summoned by D.I. Lestrade, that he realised the error of his assumption.

The door to the street opened before him, and the detective had to pull up stops at the bottom of the stairs to prevent himself from barrelling into his ex-flatmate.

"John," he gasped in surprise.

"Sherlock," John said in a business-like tone that Sherlock cared little for.

"You're—"

"—just making a house-call," John finished for him, holding up a little paper package obviously from a pharmacy, then brushing past Sherlock into the passageway beyond.

"I didn't think you made house-calls."

"I do for people I care about. Excuse me."

John hastily retreated along the length of the passageway and through to the landlady's kitchen where Sherlock heard Mrs Hudson's affectionate greeting. The Consulting Detective remained frozen to the spot, his stomach churning once again at John Watson's abrupt dismissal of him.

Sherlock puzzled over what could possibly have transpired over the last few weeks between the honeymooners. Did they not discuss Sherlock and Rose at all?

 _Mary_ , Sherlock murmured to himself, and he turned and swiftly exited onto Baker Street. The door clicked shut behind him, effectively silencing his landlady's rising cackle.

Sherlock dialled Mary Watson's mobile number as he hailed a black cab. The taxi pulled up in front of him with a customary squeal of its brakes just as Mary answered.

"Sherlock," she said, presumably upon seeing his caller I.D.

"Welcome back, Mrs Watson," Sherlock said, injecting warmth and friendliness into his tone when in fact he felt the exact opposite. "Ludgate Square, please," he told the cabbie. He decided that he had a bit of time before he had to visit the D.I. at Scotland Yard.

Sherlock settled into the back of the cab as Mary queried how Sherlock knew where she was.

"Above the noise of that pointless pop music, a hair dryer and the babble of inane conversations, I can hear the quarter hour bells of St Paul's. You're visiting your regular hair salon in Ludgate Square aren't you? It's been over six weeks since your last trim. How about coffee? There's a nice little coffee shop around the corner in Creed Lane. I'll meet you there in ten minutes. I assume you've finished? I can hear the sound of traffic now. You must've exited onto the street."

Sherlock heard Mary sigh before she agreed to meet him. After they ended the call Sherlock tapped his phone to his lips, deep in thought.

What was the point of all this? Before his fake suicide, Sherlock would virtually ignore John Watson's huffing and puffing around him. If the detective acted insensitively, John would let him know either immediately or after a few days of loud exhaling. Sherlock rarely apologised, and almost certainly never sought forgiveness. Everything had changed since his return. He was continually on the back foot with his best friend ever since discovering how much his deception had hurt John. But this was extremely important to him. This was about John's perception of Rose. She deserved better than the look John had given her.

Sherlock entered the coffee shop on Creed Lane to find that Mary had not only found a cozy table for them in the far corner, but she had also ordered a pot of tea for them to share.

"I know you like to relax with a cup of tea," Mary said after rising and greeting Sherlock with a peck on his cheek. "You prefer coffee when you're working."

Sherlock smiled in admiration of Mary's thoughtfulness as they both took their seats.

"So I suppose you can deduce why I wanted to see you?" Sherlock asked. He always enjoyed posing intellectual challenges to worthy opponents.

Mary inhaled deeply and watched Sherlock refill her empty tea cup then pour one for himself.

"John went to deliver some hand cream to Mrs Hudson," she began. "She has a skin irritation, so—"

"She misplaced her rubber gloves and has been using cleaning products with her bare hands. He could've saved himself some pennies if he'd just bought her a new pair of gloves."

"So I assume you bumped into John," Mary finished, ignoring Sherlock's segue. "And typical of John, he would've given you the cold shoulder, and now you want to know why I hadn't managed to fix his mood during our honeymoon."

"Exactly."

Sherlock idly stirred in his sugar, then looked up at Mary. He lifted an eyebrow in expectation.

"I didn't tell him anything about Rose," Mary said simply. "Because his anger wasn't directed at Rose."

"Really."

Sherlock took a sip of tea as Mary narrowed her eyes at him.

"Sherlock, John's annoyed with you for keeping things from him, for not trusting him. And yes, this still stems from you not letting him know that you were alive for two years."

Sherlock replaced his tea cup and fixed Mary with a challenging glare. He said, "So John's annoyed at not being privy to me hiring a prostitute to bring to his wedding."

"Well... no..."

"Because had I told him in advance that I'd not only hired the venue, the DJ, and the floral arrangements, but I'd also booked in a sex worker to keep the best man amused on the wedding night, he would've been fine with that."

"No..."

"You didn't see the way he looked at her," Sherlock continued, his voice pitched low. "This has got everything to do with what he thinks of Rose."

Mary bowed her head and took a moment. She shook her head a little before looking up to meet Sherlock's gaze once more.

"Sherlock," she said. "You know John's not like that. He doesn't judge people by—"

"No, wait, I can feel another deduction coming on."

"You're on form today," Mary muttered.

Small creases appeared in Sherlock's brow as he locked eyes with the doctor's wife.

"You didn't tell John everything you knew about Rose," he said slowly, "because that would be admitting that you had been keeping something from him as well. Not a good position for a newly-wed to be in, I suspect."

Mary exhaled slowly and her eyes took in the rest of the café momentarily until she brought her focus back on Sherlock. She tilted her head thoughtfully, and folded her arms in front of her.

"That may be the case," she said, her gaze unwavering, "but you and Rose made the decision to keep your relationship a secret. I can't be held responsible for the discomfort you're feeling about John's reaction on finding out."

"Well he—"

"No, Sherlock. I've been encouraging John to keep an open mind. That's all I'm willing to do. But if you want him to accept Rose for who she is, and respect the relationship you have with her, then that's up to you. Talk to John yourself. I'm not doing it for you."

Sherlock set his jaw firmly and looked away from Mary. His hand came to rest loosely on the tea cup and he distractedly tapped the handle with his thumb. He had tried talking to John. The man had been too busy fuming to listen. Mary reached across and squeezed Sherlock's hand.

"You'll be fine," she said, then she bent down to retrieve her handbag from the floor beside her chair. "I've gotta run," she continued upon rising. "We've got Stella and Ted coming over for dinner."

Sherlock stifled an eyeroll as he too stood up. Mary shouldered her handbag then reached out once more and briefly rubbed Sherlock's arm.

"Rose is lovely," Mary offered. "She really is very sweet. It won't take John long to realise that."

Sherlock responded with a weak smile.

"You know what you and John need to bond over?" Mary continued, with a mischievous glint in her eye. "A case. A complicated, frustrating, dangerous case. One that has you running all over London. How about that?"

Without waiting for an answer, she stretched up and brushed Sherlock's cheek with her lips.

"See you later," she bid him. "Call me if you need anything."

Mary was across the room and to the door by the time Sherlock decided to sit back down and pour himself one more cup of tea. Of course he would entice John away from his GP duties with a case, but Sherlock needed the passage of time to mellow the man a little. And obviously Sherlock was desperate for a new case, one that was far more interesting than the trivia he'd been involving himself in lately.

As if the gods were answering a silent prayer, Sherlock's phone began to ring. His stomach flip-flopped at the prospect of something new and dangerous on the horizon, but just as quickly, it sank when he read the caller I.D.

_Tonya Small._


	44. His Pressure Point

**Chapter 44 – His Pressure Point**

Sherlock's skin felt tight and ill-fitted. It stretched taught over his bones and muscles, and he felt that at any moment it would tear open, unleashing a raging, vengeful monster from within. He clenched both his fists by his sides and tried to keep the trembling to a minimum.

Rose turned around, and reached out a soothing hand, which she ran up and down his arm.

"Sherlock, go sit down," she bid him in a voice barely above a whisper. "I'll bring you your tea in a minute."

"No," he replied, his voice thin and strained. "Not until I know you're okay."

"I'm fine," she replied calmly, but Sherlock thought her red-rimmed eyes lessened the conviction of her words. "I've already told you that."

"Yes, but why are you _fine_?"

The couple were interrupted by the velveteen voice of the owner of the premises in whose kitchen they were liaising.

"Mr Holmes," the Clarence House Cannibal crooned from her living area.

"Go back to Tonya," Rose told Sherlock. "She wants your help. She seems to think something needs to be done."

"No."

"Go!"

Tonya Small's voice floated closer. "Right now we need Sherlock Holmes, the Consulting Detective..." The raven-haired gambling addict appeared at the entrance to her tiny kitchen. "...not Sherlock Holmes, the Concerned Boyfriend."

Sherlock clenched his jaw as he tore his gaze from Rose to Tonya.

"I told you, I don't know the man," he said.

"Well then," Tonya replied, turning away and sashaying back into her living room, "perhaps he's irrelevant."

Sherlock exhaled deeply as Rose returned to preparing a pot of tea. He reluctantly left the kitchen and crossed the living room to take a seat on Ms Small's tiny sofa.

Tonya Small leant closer to Sherlock and lowered her voice. "Of course our darling Rosebud is not fine. She's just putting on a brave face for you and I."

"I know."

Tonya straightened up again and pivotted the computer that sat on her coffee table so that the screen was angled toward the detective.

"So let's disregard the mysterious Mr Magnussen for the moment," she said, navigating away from the webpage that had filled the screen previously, "and concentrate on the equally hideous Mr Garvie."

"Permit me to play the detective card, Ms Small," Sherlock said, his mind finally kicking into gear. He reached for the laptop, and switched back to the page Tonya had just abandoned. "But Charles Augustus Magnussen is entirely relevant, even if I'm not immediately familiar with who he is. It was he who harassed Rose in her flat this evening, not John Garvie." Sherlock quickly surveyed the screen, his eyes rapidly scanning from left to right, top to bottom. He narrowed his eyes and continued with, "I want to know why the proprietor of CAM Global News is personally making house calls. If his media company is investigating an MP, doesn't he employ qualified investigative journalists? Why would the CEO of the company perform the leg work?" He turned the screen back to Tonya.

The pair looked up from the laptop as Rose entered the room carrying a tray containing a tea pot and three tea cups on matching saucers. Tonya Small always insisted that tea be prepared properly, and not in mugs with tea bags as so many uncultured people did these days.

Sherlock immediately rose from the sofa, a lump rapidly forming in his throat as he lay his eyes on Rose's ruddy cheeks once more.

"And now we have the transformation back into doting partner again," Tonya remarked. "Please concentrate, Mr Holmes. You had an interesting train of thought. Don't lose it."

Rose fixed Sherlock with a weary smile as Tonya shifted aside a handful of papers and knick-knacks to make room for the tea tray. Rose placed the tray onto the coffee table.

"I think I know what you're saying," Tonya murmured distractedly. She reached for the laptop and rapidly began typing.

Sherlock stood awkwardly to one side then gestured for Rose to sit down in the space he'd vacated.

"Stop fussing," Rose whispered to him. "I'm fine."

"No you're not," Sherlock said through narrow eyes. "You fled your own flat to come up here and take a shower in Ms Small's bathroom. You scrubbed your face until it was red raw and you keep trying to busy yourself instead of succumbing to emotion."

At that point, Tonya Small looked up in interest, a faint smile playing on her lips in appreciation of Sherlock's deduction.

"You're far from fine, Rose," he finished.

"I'm fine _now_ ," Rose added in a hollow voice.

"Now that we've cleared that up," Tonya said facetiously, "I think I've found something."

Sherlock rounded the coffee table as Rose silently poured the tea into the tea cups for the trio. The detective stood behind the Clarence House Cannibal so he could view the contents of her screen. He kicked himself for not finding the information himself. This sort of connection would normally take him less than a minute but he had been torn between playing the Concerned Boyfriend instead of the Consulting Detective as Ms Small had rightly observed.

"Here," Tonya said, indicating the screen with a manicured finger. "A Joint Select Committee between the House of Commons and the House of Lords, called Media and Communications; on the 3rd of June, they announced an inquiry into the ethical practises of the press, and are calling for oral evidence from one Charles Augustus Magnussen, a newspaper proprietor. It's scheduled for the coming week."

"So?"

Tonya clicked through to an information page concerning the Select Committee.

"Look at the list of members of this committee," she told Sherlock.

The detective narrowed his eyes in scrutiny. In amongst the baronesses and lords was the name _John Garvie_ , the Member for Rockwell South. So this inquiry was the connection between the sleaze who had visited Rose, and the man who was her former client, Sherlock concluded. It was starting to make sense now.

But he had to make sure he had all of the data. When Rose and Tonya had relayed this evening's drama to him, he had been too emotionally distraught to correctly file away the information in his Mind Palace. Now that he knew Rose hadn't been harmed, and was dealing with the trauma in her own way, he wanted to hear it all again. This time, he would keep his own feelings in check.

"Rose," he said suddenly, jolting the young woman out of her own musings while she slowly stirred her tea, "tell me everything again. Start from the beginning and don't miss anything out."

* * *

Rose made a beeline for her bedroom. She tried to avoid looking at her sofa on the way through.

"Just changing out of this," she called back to Sherlock before closing her bedroom door gently behind her.

Pressure built up in her chest and caught in her throat, and she doubled over. She leant on the bed for support then slowly lowered herself onto it. She wouldn't cry; she just couldn't. She'd already done that in Tonya's shower and she knew Sherlock would be upset by it. She had assured him _she was fine._

She heard Sherlock calling out something from the living area so she quickly stood up and opened the door a crack.

"What?"

"I don't suppose you want any more tea?" he said from the vicinity of the kitchen.

_Three cups consumed in Tonya's living room, while Tonya and Sherlock plotted and schemed..._

"No, thank you."

Rose shut the door again and decided she'd better dress before Sherlock concluded that a closed door was cause for alarm. And he'd be right. She didn't want him to fuss around her though. She'd had enough of that already.

Yes, her first instinct had been to flee her flat after Magnussen and his goonies had left. She should've stayed there; she should've switched off, like a good prostitute would have.

_I'm fine, Sherlock. I've had clients do far worse._

_Shelley the prostitute had clients do far worse,_ he had replied, his voice crackling a little. _Rose Sulford, my..._ and he'd paused, while he tried to compose himself, or perhaps he had been feeling self-conscious because of Tonya Small's presence. He had been visibly upset, more than Rose had anticipated he would be. _Rose...my girlfriend, doesn't have clients,_ he'd finished with, before Tonya had told him to focus on the case at hand, and could Rose please go and make them some tea.

Tonya was such a good friend, Rose thought in reflection.

 _My darling, you know we need to call Sherlock Holmes,_ she had said to Rose as she leant against her bathroom door while Rose was using her neighbour's shower.

Tonya had remained quite cool by comparison even though Rose had been in tears when she had shown up at the older woman's door. It was a bit telling, though, when Tonya asked what had that bastard done to her this time, before Rose could get a word out. Of course, the Clarence House Cannibal had been referring to Sherlock Holmes.

Ms Small had cursed when Rose told her that a journalist was planning to blackmail John Garvie, using the knowledge of her past relationship with the MP.

 _Fucking hell,_ Tonya had exclaimed in her polished Welsh accent. She swore as often as Sherlock Holmes did, which was a very rare occurrence indeed.

Rose removed the dressing gown she'd borrowed from Ms Small. She hadn't wanted to put her own clothing back on after her shower upstairs. She wouldn't want to wear the same outfit again; it would always remind her of today. She recalled the look of fear in Sherlock's eyes when he first laid eyes on her after entering Tonya's flat. He had quickly scanned her, his eyes growing huge and round when he noticed she was wearing an unfamiliar dressing gown and her hair was damp, fresh from the shower.

Rose shook those thoughts loose and pulled open her drawers so she could grab her pyjamas. She momentarily closed her eyes, dropping her shoulders and exhaling. It always intrigued her how much a good cry could take such a toll on her body. On the mind, of course, it was supposed to be healing.

She finished dressing just as there came a tentative knock on her bedroom door. _Poor Sherlock. He must feel like he's treading on eggshells_ , Rose thought.

The door opened a crack and Sherlock poked his head inside.

"I'm just stepping outside for a smoke. Can I get you anything before I do?"

"Are you smoking again?" Rose asked ruefully, as if today were just an ordinary day, and she was back to scolding Sherlock for this and that. She moved across to the side of her bed and looked back at him for a response.

"Ah... just going to use your tobacco, if you don't mind," Sherlock replied carefully. "Roll my own."

Rose pulled back the covers on her bed, and said, "You can roll me one; that would be nice."

Small creases appeared in Sherlock's brow. "Roll one...?"

"Not tobacco. Weed. A joint," Rose explained as she slid between the sheets. "Do you mind?"

She even gave him a sweet smile for good measure. But he would deny her nothing today, and she knew it.

Sherlock cleared his throat and nodded imperceptibly.

"And you can join me here," Rose said, patting the bed. "I don't mind if you smoke in here, too. I have to get the whole place steam-cleaned anyway."

She paused, her smile faltering as _his voice_ echoed in her mind.

 _It smells like men's cologne and semen._ Her sofa. Her sofa did, apparently.

Sherlock smiled agreeably, oblivious to her thoughts. "Okay. Perhaps I'll have a shower first, too." Then he blinked a couple of times, and looked away before hastily retreating.

_The poor man. Now he thinks he put his foot in it by mentioning having a shower, as if he has no right, having nothing to wash away. That reminds me..._

"Oh, Sherlock!"

The door opened, a little too quickly, as if Sherlock had just been on the other side of the door, contemplating their situation.

"Yes?"

"Don't use my soap."

"I don't usually. It's too harsh on my skin."

"I know. Just in case... you accidentally..."

Sherlock loved her soap. He loved inhaling deeply and smelling the coconut on her skin. She knew this; he had told her once. And she loved Sherlock snuggling into her and burying his face in the crook of her neck, breathing her in before falling asleep. Unfortunately that creep had also smellt it. And inhaled deeply. And then he'd _licked her face._

 _It even tastes like coconut_ , he'd said softly. That's how he'd spoken to her, the whole time he was in her flat—softly and gently, like a counsellor. _I wonder if you taste like coconut all over? Did Mr Garvie ever find out?_

Rose shivered, and pulled the sheets up higher. The door clicked shut and Sherlock was gone. Good. She had about ten minutes. She drew her knees up and hugged them. Then she dropped her head and inhaled deeply. Tears pricked her eyes. She exhaled slowly, and her breath shuddered on the way out. The tears flowed smoothly now, and Rose let her whole body respond as it wanted to. Her stomach churned, and goosebumps formed on her skin. Finally, her head swam and she felt nauseas.

Two more breaths, and then it was time to compose herself.

Her breath choked on the way out.

By the time Sherlock returned from the shower, Rose was lying on her side facing the centre of her bed. Her tears had dried up and she'd smoothed out the sheets.

"Pyjamas," Sherlock said quietly, almost apologetically, as he skirted the bed on the way to Rose's set of drawers. He held a towel around his hips, and his skin was dotted with droplets of water.

He wrestled the drawer open with his free hand and Rose rolled over to watch him. This was a familiar routine for them. Why Sherlock never took his pyjamas with him to the bathroom she never knew. And he always had trouble opening the double drawer with only one hand.

 _He's so quiet though_ , she thought. _He doesn't know what to do with me. He doesn't realise what a great comfort he's been, even though he thinks he should've solved the case by now._

Sherlock had tutted a couple of times upstairs, whenever Tonya Small had made a deduction that he thought he should've made.

 _Magnussen thinks you were Garvie's mistress_ , Tonya had concluded. _He has no idea you were hired as a call girl._

Rose had figured that out herself during Magnussen's 'meeting' with her. He kept calling her Garvie's lover, girlfriend, mistress. He referred to the MP as an adulterer. But she didn't know why the media magnate had come to that erroneous conclusion until Tonya had interrogated her about the last time she had seen John Garvie.

Of course. She had phoned the MP using her personal mobile phone—the one registered under the name of _Rosemarie Sulford_. She had dumped her sex worker phone upon leaving London for Cardiff to take up her psychology internship.

Rosemarie Sulford was a psychology graduate. She had won an internship in Cardiff but returned to London to have an affair with a married Member of Parliament.

 _Did you know he was also bedding one of his advisor's at the time?_ Magnussen had asked Rose. He'd tutted, as if Rose had been rejected by Garvie, and the poor thing didn't know the man was a serial adulterer. He even cheated on his mistresses. Didn't she want to get her own back?

Sherlock pushed a little too hard on the drawer and it closed crookedly due to his one-handedness.

"Fuck it," he muttered.

Rose's heart fell. She didn't want Sherlock to be stressed or upset about this. She tore the covers away, and sprang out of bed just as Sherlock turned around to face her. Rose wound her arms around his neck and choked out an "I'm sorry."

"Rose?"

Sherlock awkwardly banded one arm around Rose's back. He held his pyjamas in the same hand. His other hand still held the towel to his hips.

"I'm so sorry," she sobbed into Sherlock's neck. "I'm such a horrible person."

"Rose, don't."

Rose felt Sherlock shift his stance. He lightly threw his pyjamas onto the bed so he could hold her to him.

"I was so wrong," she said, croaking through tears. "I thought I was invincible."

"What?"

She was confusing the poor man with her overwhelming thoughts. Rose drew back and locked her tear-stained eyes with Sherlock's.

"When I was twenty-two."

"Um..." Sherlock blinked several times, his brow furrowed in confusion. "May I get dressed first? Before, you know, you embark on a... ah... journey of self-discovery."

Rose couldn't help but laugh, and she dropped her arms from around Sherlock's neck. He gave her a tiny smile in response, probably out of relief, she thought. She turned, and climbed back into bed, handing Sherlock his pyjamas as she did so.

Sherlock self-consciously cleared his throat, then donned his pyjamas bottoms first. He pulled his grey shirt over his head, and braved a glance a Rose. She was studying him. As he fixed his shirt around his hips, he said, "So... did you want to tell me something about when you were twenty-two?"

"That was when I decided I could trade money for sex."

Sherlock had casually placed his hands on his hips. His face was largely impassive as he remained standing by the bed. "Okay," he said.

Rose thought he looked like he wanted to bolt.

"That's all," she added, wanting to alleviate his discomfort. "You can go now."

Sherlock's face softened, and a smile grew on his face. He moved toward the bed and sat down by Rose's legs.

He reached for her hand and said, "No, it's fine. Tell me. You were invincible."

A faint smile remained on his lips, and Rose's heart fluttered in response to his thoughtful gesture.

"Its... it's a thing... with young women, I think," she began, suddenly feeling silly and self-indulgent. "Some women. Me, specifically, and some of my friends at the time—about discovering their sexuality and thinking they can control males with it."

"Oh."

"Men rule the world, supposedly, and men are obsessed with sex. So if you can control when and where and how they have sex, then you can ultimately rule them and the world."

"I see."

Sherlock's focus was unwavering, and Rose wondered what he truly thought of her in this moment.

"But I was wrong, wasn't I?" she continued anyway. "By making myself into a sexual object, I was degrading myself, and supporting a culture of violence against women. Well... you and I both know this... now."

"Yep."

Rose squeezed Sherlock's hand when she realised his smile had long disappeared, probably because she'd reminded him of his own involvement in the industry. She attempted to reassure him with a smile.

"If only I could go back and tell myself what a stupid twat I was being."

A smile grew on Sherlock's face in response to Rose's remark.

"I'm fairly intelligent," she added. "I just don't know why I couldn't see how my actions would affect my life in the future. I was such an idiot back then, and it was only six years ago."

Sherlock's gaze dropped to their hands, and he gently caressed the back of Rose's hand with his thumb before his eyes met hers again.

"You weren't the only idiot at the age of twenty-two," he said.

"You were an idiot?" she asked, raising her brows in encouragement, and feeling relieved that Sherlock had stopped responding in monosyllables.

Sherlock took a moment to study Rose's eyes, before he sighed. Keeping his expression bright, he said, "I thought I was invincible, too—that I was far too clever to become addicted to cocaine."

"And what happened?"

"I ended up in hospital, probably too many times for my brother's liking."

"And now?"

"I'm still clever, and proven to be invincible, but I'm only addicted to nicotine."

Rose laughed lightly, prompting Sherlock's smile to broaden.

But the frivolity was short-lived. Rose's expression grew serious again, and she asked Sherlock if he thought she was going to be okay.

"I'll fix it so you will be," he replied. "I'm sorry I wasn't performing to the best of my ability earlier."

"You were just fine. Perfect, in fact."

"I s'pose I got there in the end."

"Got where?" Rose asked. "You mean with the idea for Garvie?"

Sherlock had suggested that if they somehow removed Garvie from the Select Committee, then Magnussen would lose the incentive to investigate the MP any further. Rose may then be safe from further harassment.

"Yes. Wasn't that the point?"

"That was Tonya's reason for calling you, not mine. I didn't want to make a case out of it."

"So why did you want to call me? You said you were fine."

Rose's eyes suddenly watered and her bottom lip trembled. Sherlock's eyes widened, and obviously he had realised his mistake. He quickly leaned forward and enveloped Rose in his embrace. A sob escaped her, and before she knew it, great, wet, blobby tears came rolling down her cheeks. She hiccupped another sob only to have Sherlock hold her more firmly.

 _This_ was what she had needed all evening—not endless cups of tea, and two people working earnestly on her 'case,' but to be held, tightly, in the arms of Sherlock Holmes, her boyfriend.

:::

Sherlock ran a critical eye over the spliff he'd rolled for Rose. It was a perfect specimen, but he wasn't happy about Rose insisting that she still wanted to toke tonight. After their prolonged hug, Rose had wiped her tears away and had asked in a small voice if Sherlock could now roll her a joint.

"Didn't the little cautionary tale about my cocaine use mean anything to you?" he had asked.

"A cautionary tale?" Rose had repeated, almost laughing. "Sherlock, that was barely an anecdote."

Rose had left for the bathroom to freshen up and had then joined Sherlock in the kitchen. She watched him make the filter, the roach, for one end of the joint and had hummed in satisfaction at his creation. While he was finishing, she had returned to her bedroom with a jug of water, two glass tumblers, and a box of cornflakes.

Rose had made herself comfortable, sitting propped up with pillows behind her and the sheet pulled up to her waist, when Sherlock re-entered her bedroom with the joint, a lighter, and a small bowl. Sherlock held the joint to his lips while he lit one end. He inhaled deeply, plucked the joint from his lips and handed it to Rose before exhaling.

"That's... pretty good," he said on reflection.

"Didn't you roll yourself any tobacco?" Rose asked, before taking a toke herself.

Sherlock climbed into bed beside her. He replied, "I never smoke in bed. It seems wrong, somehow."

"Then toke with me." Rose held the joint aloft as she sunk a tiny bit lower between the sheets. "Come on. We never do this. It'll be fun!"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the temptation hovering in the air before him. He had combined the perfect ratio of skunk from Amsterdam and Golden Virginia Tobacco. It would be remiss of him not to sample it once more.

"Fine," he acquiesced, plucking the joint from between Rose's fingers. "Just don't start giggling."

"I'll only giggle if you're particularly funny," Rose quipped.

She slid over toward Sherlock. He stretched out one arm so Rose could snuggle into his chest.

As Sherlock exhaled, he said, "Did I tell you about the time I drugged John just for fun? He missed a whole Wednesday."


	45. Don't Appall Me When I'm High

**Chapter 45 - Don't Appall Me When I'm High**

Sherlock toked deeply, holding the smoke in his lungs as he held the joint aloft and carefully scrutinised the specimen between narrow, foggy eyes. He exhaled and made a second attempt at the term that had just eluded him, and which had sent Rose off into another round of laughter.

"Cannonibol.. cannin.. cannann.."

Rose snorted beside him. Sherlock moistened his lips, passed the joint over to his chuckling companion, and then spoke in what he imagined to be a clear and authoritative manner.

"Tetra... hydro... cannin... canna... binol. There."

Rose silently shook, not quite able to contain herself before she had a toke. She slowly pulled herself to a sitting position, twisting so that she faced Sherlock as she exhaled.

"That was worth waiting for," she said, her eyes still moist with laughter.

"Also known as THC," he said, scowling. He plucked the joint from Rose's fingers, and held it in the air in front of them so they could examine it while he continued to explain its properties. "Well it's the active ingredient anyway... it enters the bloodstream..."

Rose raised herself up on her knees, then mounted Sherlock's lap, facing him as he took another toke.

"… causes a heightened state of euphoria," he continued as he exhaled. Then he prodded Rose in the chest while saying, "Which makes you find humour... in everything I say."

Rose burst into a fresh round of laughter. She placed her arms on either side of Sherlock's reclined head, and loomed over him. "Because what you're saying is hilarious," she said, between giggles.

She sat back again, prompting Sherlock's hands to come to rest on Rose's thighs, which he rubbed affectionately. "I'm merely detailing—"

Rose snorted out another laugh, causing Sherlock to scowl at her.

"You see, that's not even remotely funny," he said.

"The way you say it, it is."

Rose took back the joint from Sherlock and toked while Sherlock continued to study her.

"Why?" he asked.

"Because you're bloody stoned, Sherlock," she said, gesturing toward him with the burning ember, "and you're desperately trying to sound normal, which makes you sound more posh than ever, like... I don't know... the Prime Minister..."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes deep in thought. "Wait," he said, "isn't the Prime Minister a woman?"

Sherlock raised his eyes to the ceiling as Rose collapsed on top of him, consumed with laughter. As she held the joint a little way away from their bodies, Sherlock plucked it out of her fingers.

"I think we're down to tobacco only," he remarked, eventually, once Rose's chuckling had become consumed by a coughing fit that Sherlock had to pat out of her.

"How do you know?" Rose asked, her voice slightly strained.

Sherlock took one last drag, holding the roach between thumb and forefinger. "Because I rolled it," he said. "Yes, definitely tobacco," he then added on an exhale. He placed the roach into a bowl that Rose had brought into her bedroom for exactly that purpose.

"Good," said Rose, hovering over him once more. She lowered herself until her lips were but a whisper away from Sherlock's and said, "Now we can have the most amazing sex you've ever had."

Her mouth met Sherlock's before he could reply. He responded by holding her firmly against him, and tangling his tongue with hers. Before they became too engrossed, Rose drew back so she could sit up and remove her pyjama top. "That okay with you?" she asked him.

"The most amazing sex I've ever had?"

"A thousand times better."

"Excellent," he murmured. He pulled his topless girlfriend down toward him, then rolled them both until she was pinned beneath his body. "Because I've had sex with a prostitute, and it was complete rubbish."

Sherlock attempted to stifle Rose's onset of laughter by bringing his mouth down hard on hers. She was still able to writhe beneath him though, and chuckled against his lips, so he gave up trying to wrestle with her and raised himself up on his elbows.

The laughter that had bubbled through her was forcefully expelled.

Sherlock patiently looked on as Rose alternately giggled, snorted, and guffawed; she attempted to stifle her chuckling by covering her mouth, but she still trembled and her eyes bore the tears of her laughter.

"Why are you so funny?" she said, her giggling eventually subsiding as Sherlock still loomed over her.

"I'm really not."

Rose couldn't help but grin broadly, which prompted a smile to spread across Sherlock's face.

"Well, you're one up on me," Rose said while trying to maintain a serious expression.

"What's that?"

" _I've_ never had sex with a prostitute."

"Well that's something," Sherlock remarked. "Me having had a sexual experience that you haven't had. What can we do about that?" He pressed himself closer to Rose, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "Because I'm not sure you can afford my hourly rate."

"Hourly?" Rose laughed. "That's optimistic."

Sherlock's closed-mouthed chuckle rumbled in Rose's ear as he went to press soft kisses to her neck.

Rose sighed, then whispered, "Unfortunately I'm philosophically opposed.." She exhaled deeply, as Sherlock's mouth and tongue continued to explore. "...to the... to the use of prostitutes..." A moan escaped Rose's lips, as Sherlock's attention was directed to her breasts. "... for sexual gratification."

" _Male_ prostitute," Sherlock murmured, before his efforts had him taking to Rose's other breast.

Rose hummed in blissful satisfaction, then replied, " _All_ prostitutes."

Sherlock ceased his ministrations. He still felt fairly lucid, but his words flowed just that tad slower. "How does male prostitution contribute to the ongoing exploitation of women by men?"

Rose glanced down at the man who was hovering around her midriff. He was looking up at her with small creases in between his brows. Rose grasped the shoulders of his t-shirt and tugged a little.

"You what?" she said, a bit put out that he'd stopped his foreplay.

Sherlock received Rose's message loud and clear, so he sat up and pulled off his shirt. He tossed it to the floor.

"Male prostitutes," he said again. Sherlock lowered himself onto his back as Rose took control. "How do they..." It was his turn to succumb to the deft oral work of his companion. He sighed before speaking again. "How do they figure in the...  _Christ, Rose..._ " She'd only managed to navigate to his nipples, but he found every sensation and pools of pleasure magnified. He breathed out slowly again, listened to Rose chuckling, then continued speaking. "Your and  _whatshername's_  little group project thing... what are you going to do about male sex workers?"

Rose sat back onto her haunches, and blew a strand of hair from her face. "What?"

"The A-sex thingy," Sherlock said, waving a hand in front of Rose's breasts for some reason.

And naturally she started giggling again.

"The ASXX?" she asked. "The one Tonya talks about—the Anti-SeXXploitation Project?"

"Yeah, that."

"What's your problem with them?"

"What are they going to do about male sex workers? They're hardly women being exploited by men. And speaking of exploited, come back here, with those..."

Rose chuckled lightly, then stretched out of the top of Sherlock. The detective slid his hands into the back of Rose's pyjama bottoms and drew her closer. He listened to her mewls of pleasure, then he flipped them over once more, grabbed the waistband of Rose's pyjamas, and removed them in one fluid motion.

"Answer the question," he said, before ducking his head.

Rose's immediate response was a stream of curses as she arched her back, demanding more, and she grasped Sherlock's hair. Her breath came in shorter gasps, music to Sherlock's ears.

Eventually, Rose was able to pant, "Sex...ual... ah... slavery."

Sherlock lifted his head. "What?"

Rose was breathing heavily and unevenly, but she looked down at Sherlock and repeated, "Sexual slavery."

"How... is that...?" He frowned, puzzled, then cast Rose's leg aside.

Sherlock pulled himself upwards, much to Rose's dissatisfaction.

"Don't fuckin' stop," she said, grabbing Sherlock's hand and directing it between her legs.

Sherlock happily obliged, moving his fingers rhythmically, replacing the task previously undertaken by his tongue.

"Sexual slavery," he murmured, before capturing Rose's breast in his mouth.

"Get rid of it," she said.

"Mmm?"

"Sex slaves. Men, women, children."

Sherlock concentrated on his task for a moment, listening intently to Rose's breathing. He was bringing her to the edge again.

Abruptly she pulled his hand away, and began pushing on his shoulders. Evidently they were destined to reach a happy ending together.

"Save them all," she said, as Sherlock fell onto his back.

She impatiently grabbed at Sherlock's pyjama bottoms, and roughly pulled them downwards.

"Abolish slavery?" Sherlock asked, after lifting his hips to accommodate Rose in removing his last item of clothing.

Rose grinned triumphantly. "Get stoned; save the world."

Sherlock chuckled lightly. "Rose, you're a genius."

"Now," she said, eyeing his erection. She rose up onto her knees and rearranged herself on top of him once more. "I think we're ready to go here."

"Oh, that," Sherlock remarked, his lips curving into a smile. "Heightened libido," he added, continuing in his quest for commentating on every aspect of the effects of cannabis as they experienced it. "I've had that for quite a while now."

"Yes," Rose sighed, before applying pressure. "Since 2011, I bet."

Sherlock rumbled out a laugh, before he rose from the bed, and sat upright, capturing his girlfriend in his arms.

The composure he had tried to maintain while he had been conversing with Rose all evening had slipped. Rose had been correct in her assessment earlier. Sherlock had been trying to avoid sounding stoned. But their physical intimacy was one time Sherlock could always relax and be himself, and would thoroughly enjoy their session while tending to his lover's every need. So on this occasion, with his senses chemically heightened, inhibitions practically non-existent, and with an over-enthusiastic partner, this sexual encounter was unequivocally the greatest he'd ever experienced.

* * *

Sherlock gulped down another full glass of water, but he could still taste the dry cereal as if it had caused a blockage in his oesophagus.

"No, that won't do," he said to the woman who was contentedly munching on Cornflakes beside him. "Don't you have anything else?"

Sherlock hastily pulled on his pyjama bottoms and left the bedroom to raid Rose's kitchen cabinets. Disappointedly, he found nothing in either the cabinets or the fridge.

"I'll order something," he called out to Rose.

Rose emerged from the bedroom five minutes later, cradling the cereal box in one arm as she dragged her quilt along behind her. She was fully dressed in her pyjamas, dressing gown, and white bunny rabbit slippers.

She deposited the quilt in front of her telly, and made herself comfortable on the floor before grabbing the remote control from the coffee table behind her. The television flickered to life, and Rose immediately pressed mute. She clicked through several channels before settling on a children's cartoon show.

Her heavy-lidded eyes stared, transfixed, at the screen. She began giggling again, in between shovelling handfuls of Cornflakes into her mouth.

Sherlock glanced over from the kitchen, where he was rolling them another joint.

"What are you laughing at?"

"This show," she replied. "It's funnier with the sound off."

Sherlock slowly shook his head, and twisted the end of the joint before he held it in the air and admired his handiwork. He made for the bedroom, with Rose catching sight of him as he went past.

"Where are you going?"

"I've left the lighter in the bedroom. Won't be a minute."

Sherlock grabbed his pyjama shirt while he was there, and drew it over his head. He could feel that his movements were slow, but fluid and smooth, not snappy and well-defined as they normally would be. His thoughts were linear and sequential, instead of multiple trees of a multitude of thoughts, all branching out and requiring the same amount of processing power. He was still clever, he thought, but he could only manage one puzzle at a time.

This would concern him if he had a case— _did he have a case? Of course he had a case. Rose's case._ But he found himself not overly concerned. The Garvie thing would be sorted. He  _and Tonya Small_ were on the case.

He grabbed the roach bowl from the bedside table, and brought all items back to the living room and Rose.

"Why are you down there?" he asked her, setting the bowl onto the coffee table behind her head.

"Because the sofa smells like semen," she said without turning her head from the TV.

Sherlock sighed and handed the now lit joint to Rose. Then he walked over to the couch, bent over it, and took a sniff along its length. Behind him, Rose chuckled.

"Sherlock Holmes. You have one fine arse."

Sherlock ignored her. "It doesn't smell like semen." He straightened up and turned to Rose. "And we've never had sex on your couch anyway. And before you say anything, no I haven't ejaculated on it while you were out. Magnussen is talking through his arse. The man probably had semen under his own nose from when he masturbated in the car on the way over here. Pervert."

Sherlock dropped himself onto the sofa, and stretched himself out along it.

"Come over here," he said, patting the side of the cushion. "And cuddle me like we normally do."

"No. I want to stay here."

Sherlock stared at the ceiling until he sensed something in his periphery. Rose was holding out the joint, so he accepted it, and toked a couple of times in silence. He flexed his toes, because it felt good to do so, then dragged his legs back down to the ground, sitting up simultaneously.

"Come on, Rose."

"No," she said, turning to regard the detective. "He made me sit next to him, then he licked my face."

"Well, it's not the sofa's fault."

Rose reached out for the joint, so Sherlock handed it over.

"Which side of your face did he lick?" he asked resignedly.

Rose placed a hand over her right cheek while she took a drag. Sherlock stood up and made his way over to her. Rose raised her eyebrows in alarm.

"What?"

Sherlock settled on the floor next to her, bent nearer, and brushed her cheek with his lips.

"Magic Sherlock kisses," he murmured, then planted several tiny kisses all over the side of her face in quick succession. "They ward off evil," he whispered. He cupped her face, and pressed his lips to her cheek again and again.

Rose giggled like a flirtatious schoolgirl; Sherlock's breath had tickled her.  _Magic Sherlock kisses_ , she recited in her mind.

Rose lay down upon her quilt and held out her hand, inviting Sherlock to join her on the floor. The Consulting Detective reached for the spliff, then stretched out on his side, next to Rose. He toked, blew the smoke away Rose, then settled down. Rose turned her head toward him, making their faces only inches apart.

She studied his blue-grey eyes, that were flecked with green and gold. They were as glazed and red-rimmed as she imagined hers were, but he was still able to gaze at her intently, as if she were the only person who mattered to him in the entire world. The idea warmed her to her very core.

Rose reached out her hand, and traced Sherlock's full lips.  _Magic Sherlock kisses,_ she chanted once more in her mind, and she smiled a secret smile at the thought.

When her eyes met Sherlock's once more, he reached for her. He caressed her cheek with his thumb, and said, his voice low and gravelly, "I love you, Rose."

Rose's heart swelled, and her breath caught in her throat. Tears welled unbidden in her eyes.

"You're so fucking high, Sherlock. That's not fair."

"I know," he said, a smile growing on his face. "I'm sorry."

He inched forward, so that their foreheads were touching.

"I love you, too," Rose whispered, before her vision was blurred by her blobby tears.

Sherlock reached up and wiped a few of them away with his thumb. "I know," he said. He tilted his head and pressed a soft kiss to Rose's forehead.

"I won't let anyone hurt you," he said, his voice pitched low. "Or make threats against you. They will no longer walk this earth if they think they can get away with it. I'll see to that."

Rose was taken aback by the intensity of Sherlock's promise.

"That's... that's a little psychopathic," she whispered, and she smiled, to take the sting out of her psychological assessment.

To her surprise, Sherlock's face brightened a little.

"High-functioning sociopath."

* * *

They were down to the roach once more, but Sherlock didn't want to leave their protective bubble to roll them another one just yet.

He was enjoying cuddling Rose as she sat in his lap. They had made it as far as the armchair, not quite the sofa, but Rose had the idea of draping the quilt over both their heads, so they could toke in an enclosed space, keeping the smoke within their little cavern. They could reduce the loss and preserve their high and also not pollute her flat any more than they already had.

Rose said she felt warm with her legs curled up in his lap. Sherlock had said his feet were cold, poking out underneath the quilt which wasn't quite long enough to cover him from head to toe, so Rose had squeezed her bunny rabbit slippers onto the end of his toes. They poked out at the bottom of the armchair.

"Did you love her?" Rose asked, her lips hovering over his.

He thought they could pause their conversation and snog again, like they had been doing every five minutes or so. But this was a question to which Rose looked like she really wanted the answer.

"No," he replied swiftly, then he stole a kiss from her anyway.

Rose snuggled into Sherlock's neck, content with the answer that he hadn't been in love with the first girl he'd ever snogged; the first girl who'd ever dared put her hand down the nineteen year old Sherlock Holmes's trousers, and the same girl he had considered having sex with later at the age of twenty-one. But of course he didn't get lucky there.  _Let's blame Mycroft for that, shall we?_

How Rose had managed to get all that information out of him—plus the girl's name—in a two-minute conversation, he had no idea.

That's right. He had boasted that he hadn't been as innocent as he appeared to be the first time he had met her in the Lyceum Street brothel and she had taken his virginity. But yes, he definitely had been a virgin; he hadn't lied there. He'd merely deleted any sexual liaison, or almost-sexual liaison, he'd ever had, because it would become irrelevant and distracting for most of his adult life.

"But you liked her," Rose concluded, after spending a further minute dwelling on this mysterious girl from Sherlock's past.

"I found her slightly less irritating than the rest of the population, so, yes."

"Would you fuck her if you met her again tomorrow?"

"Yes... I mean, no. Of course not."

Rose pretended to be appalled, so Sherlock quickly distracted her with a kiss and a sneaky grope.

They both jumped when five sharp raps resonated on Rose's front door.

They froze, hidden away from the world in their makeshift dwelling, the quilt tent. Sherlock whispered in Rose's ear that it may be Magnussen and his henchmen who had come back to receive her answer. Was she ready to tell her story to the world, and exact revenge on the politician who'd rejected her?

Rose countered Sherlock's suggestion, reminding him that the media CEO hadn't wanted an answer from her. He was merely giving her options—should she ever want to sell her story—and he was also information-gathering. There wasn't to be a return visit. Sherlock had misunderstood.

Sherlock scowled at the memory of the evening in Tonya's flat earlier. It hadn't helped that Tonya had confused him with her own interpretations and opinions sprinkled throughout Rose's recount.

But the pair still remained silent when the knocks resounded again. Three this time, a little more hesitant.

Sherlock pressed a finger to Rose's lips.

"Spies," he whispered. "Intelligence gathering."

Rose's eyes widened. She had no idea into what world she now existed, since Sherlock Holmes had re-entered her life. She had initially thought that Charles Augustus Magnussen worked for Mycroft Holmes, and when she had walked in on the media sleaze seated serenely on her sofa, with Goon #1 and Goon #2 standing stifly on either side of him (Goon #3 had closed the door behind her—how kind!) she thought Sherlock's brother had finally come around to punishing her for ignoring his request never to see his little brother again.

It wasn't with relief that she discovered that her assumption was erroneous.

Three more knocks.

Rose looked to Sherlock for guidance. He shrugged but decided to bring his knees up a little, effectively making the little bunny rabbits creep backwards so they too were hidden underneath the bottom of the quilt.

Then a small inkling of a memory entered Rose's mind.

"Sherlock!" she said, pulling the quilt from both their heads.

"Rose!" Sherlock said, in a mild panic. He grabbed at the quilt and attempted to cover them both again.

"Sherlock!" Rose hissed in admonishment, reefing the quilt out of his fingers. "Didn't you order us some food?"

Sherlock looked from Rose to the door, and back to Rose again.

"Oh."

* * *

Sherlock was startled awake by a very loud thump and the sound of Rose profusely apologising.

"What?" he croaked, struggling to sit up.

"I'm so sorry. I really am. I'm on my way now."

"What?"

Sherlock looked across to the floor, where Rose sat leaning against the wall. She pulled herself to a standing position, using the wall as a leverage.

"Fuck!" she said fiercely.

"What?" Sherlock said, for the third time.

Rose dropped her hand, and Sherlock saw that she was holding her phone.

"What were you doing down there?" he asked, raking a hand through his hair in order to stimulate blood flow, or thought processes, or  _something._

"I fell off the bed when I answered my phone...  _fucking hell, Sherlock!"_

"What?"

"I'm late for work," she said, rounding the bed. "We slept in, and...  _oh my God!"_  Rose stared in horror at something at the end of the bed. "Oh no, it's okay." She stooped to pick up an object from the floor.

Sherlock struggled to keep up. Everything Rose had said so far was random and kind of alarming.

"I'd thought you'd been stabbed or fucking soiled yourself," she explained.

Sherlock sat up properly, blinked and tried to focus. A brownish, reddish lumpy stain had pooled and congealed around his feet.  _Charming,_ he thought.  _She thought I had soiled myself._

Rose held up a takeaway food container. "Oops," she said.

Sherlock scratched his head. "Whose bright idea was it to eat Indian takeaway in bed?"

Rose fixed him with a meaningful look before she left the room.

 _Oh,_  Sherlock thought.

"Oh my God, what the  _fuck!_ "

Sherlock momentarily shut his eyes and tried to visualise the worst possible scene Rose could find out there. His deductive reasoning was practically non-existent. He slipped from the bed and stood, swaying slightly, when she came storming back in.

Pointing at the bed using the container she still held in her hand, she said with a slight tremor in her voice, "Don't worry about the rest, but could you please take the sheets off and soak them? I'm sorry, I have to go to work." She left the room again, calling out, "I was meant to be on opening the shop... I'm so fucking late!"

Sherlock heard rummaging in the kitchen cabinets. An awful lot of rummaging. He thought he'd better get out there to assess the damage.

He quickly donned his pyjamas and dressing gown as the noise continued in the kitchen. His first stop was the living area.

Not... too bad. Obviously building a little bed on the floor out of the sofa and armchair cushions was a fun idea, particularly since Rose refused to cuddle with him on the sofa in it's regular state. And the coffee table was moved aside, too. An easy fix.

Sherlock walked toward the kitchen.

_Well, yes._

Rose looked up at him after she'd scooped up the contents of one of the drawers and hastily shoved them inside. She shook her head at him, then surveyed the rest of the mess, dropping her shoulders in defeat.

"Just get ready for work, Rose," Sherlock quietly bid her. "I'll get this."

"It's like the work of fucking drug addicts," she said in disgust, stepping over random items that had been upended onto the floor. "Were we that desperate?"

"Enthusiastic," Sherlock replied, fixing her with a grim smile. He stooped to pick up a potato masher that had managed to find its way across the floor of the kitchen.

They had just wanted more weed. Obviously four ( _five?_ ) spliffs wasn't enough of an evening. Rose was sure she had a secret stash somewhere. What was funny was Rose holding up random objects and telling Sherlock amusing stories relating to them. Well, it was funny at the time.

And sex. A lot of sex. A heightened libido. And a much smaller recovery window. Sherlock surveyed the rooms as Rose left to get ready for work.  _In the bedroom, twice._ _Out here on_ _our_ _little cozy makeshift bed,_ _including antics which may have lead us to_ _the..._

"Oh, fuck me. Really?" came Rose's voice, echoing off the tiles.

_..._ _shower_ _._

Sherlock was once again drawn to Rose and her reaction to whatever disorder the two stoners had managed to create the night before. He entered the bathroom to find that Rose was under the shower having decided to ignore the shampoo and conditioner bottles, shower gels and moisturisers that lay on the floor in a confused heap among towels and bath mats.

The floor was cold and hard. They had to fuck somewhere comfortable after the shower.

_Like two animals on heat._

_Jesus Fucking Christ._

Rose spotted Sherlock when he bent down to pick up a bar of soap as she was shampooing and conditioning her hair simultaneously to save time.

"Throw that one out," she said before ducking her head underneath the spray.

Sherlock knew why; it was the coconut soap he loved so much. He drifted out of the bathroom clutching the potato masher in one hand, and his beloved soap in the other. He paused by the passageway to the bedroom, brought the soap up to his nose and inhaled deeply. He closed his eyes.

 _Apple, pear, coconut, Rose._ His dopamine chant. It would be no more.

_Why did you have to lick her face, you sick cunt._

Sherlock Holmes hardly ever swore.

He dropped the soap into his dressing gown pocket, then tapped the potato masher against his thigh. Where should he begin?

Rose began to call Sherlock from the bathroom, so the decision was taken out of his hands.

"I'm just going to do my hair and makeup," she said, once he'd appeared in the bathroom doorway. "So can you please get my clothes out? You know what I wear to work; just lay them on the bed."

Sherlock nodded then turned to leave.

"No! Not the bed." Rose frowned as she ran a comb through her wet hair. "Just… I don't know. Someplace they won't get ruined. Just lay them out so I can get dressed quickly. Please."

"Right," Sherlock said. "Maybe…" He waved the potato masher in the air, vaguely gesturing toward the living area. "Out there."

"Yeah, okay, good," Rose agreed, narrowing her eyes at Sherlock's newly acquired appendage.

The detective left, with a new purpose in his stride. He knew exactly what Rose would wear. He'd witnessed her dressing and undressing many times on either side of a work day.

Sherlock lay the masher on top of the dresser, then he chose a top, undershirt, bra, skirt, stockings and knickers. He piled them all in his hands, placed the potato masher on top, then took them out to the living area. He quickly determined that draping them all over the back of the armchair was probably the safest and most easily accessible spot.

He drifted back to the bathroom.

"Tea?" he asked Rose.

She had just finished her last touches of makeup—minimal and understated, Sherlock observed—and had braided her wet hair.

"Um… thanks, but no. I'm two hours late already. Are my clothes out there?"

"Yes," Sherlock replied, following her into the living room like a personal valet. "Your hair is still wet."

"I thought I'd let it dry like this. I don't have time to do it properly."

Rose carefully laid the potato masher aside that she found on top of her underwear.

"They tried ringing me all morning, for fuck's sake," she explained as she drew on her knickers.

Sherlock spied the masher balancing precariously on the back of the armchair next to Rose's clothing, and quickly and discreetly retrieved it before it fell.

"I didn't even hear the phone," she continued, as she hooked up her bra. "Did you?"

"Um… no."

"They had to ring my manager to open up. So I just lied and said I had severe food poisoning last night and I was up all night vomiting." Rose grabbed her skirt next and stepped into it as she continued speaking. "Then by the time I managed to fall asleep it was in the early hours, I told her. But of course I'm okay now, so I said I'd be in."

"Right," Sherlock said, scratching his head with the utensil. "Why didn't you just take the whole day off?"

"Because I had all that time off last year, remember? I've used up a crapload of leave already."

Rose pulled her shirt over her head as Sherlock hummed in reluctant agreement. The dark weeks. He remembered them well.

"Your stockings," he said, waving at them with the masher.

"Oh, it's not that cold. I'll go without, thanks."

Rose looked around for her shoes while Sherlock strode over to the door and retrieved her coat. He brought it to the middle of the living area and held it out for Rose once she'd stepped into her heels.

"Oh, thank you," she said, laughing lightly. "What fantastic service." She noticed that Sherlock still held the potato masher in his hand as he fixed her coat for her. She turned around to face him. "Are you all right?"

"Not really, no."

Rose reached up and caressed his face as he gazed down at her. She noted his bloodshot eyes.

"I'm sorry," she said. "Last night was…"

"I'm fine with all that, Rose. I wanted to be there for you. I just feel like shit, that's all. My brain feels foggy, but it will pass."

"Well, thank you." Rose planted a soft kiss on Sherlock's lips, lingering a little when she felt him reciprocate. When she drew back, he gave her a half-smile. "You're Sherlock Holmes without all your usual… vigour," she remarked.

Sherlock's smile broadened. "I had vigour in abundance last night."

A tiny chuckle escaped Rose. "Yeah, what was that about?" She glanced toward the temporary bed set up in front of the telly. "That was… well… it was like James Dodd on R&R leave."

"Sorry, what?"

"Jesus, sorry, bad joke. Ex-boyfriend. Army. Loads of sex."

"Oh."  _That_  James Dodd. "Of course."

"Not as sweet and romantic a tale as your lovely Miss Grace… what was her name again? Grace Elizabeth  _something_  Dunbar."

Sherlock tutted, and almost hung his head in embarrassment. "Bernadette," he muttered.

"Well, it's a beautiful name. And just a bit posh. Bet she was lovely though."

Sherlock shrugged noncommitedly. "She had her moments."

The detective shifted uncomfortably. The copious amount of sex he could live with. This  _information sharing_  about someone from his past was excruciatingly painful to revisit in the harsh light of a  _sober_  day.

"Aren't you late for work?"

Rose smiled grimly. "Yep," she sighed.

They regarded each other for a moment, twin pairs of red-rimmed eyes. Sherlock knew there were emotions and feelings jostling to be set free, if he'd just speak the words aloud as he had done last night. He couldn't though. There was some sort of barrier.

"I love you," Rose whispered.

At least  _she_  had no encumbrances.

Sherlock's gut turned and twisted. Rose was gazing at him with eyes widened by hope. All he could offer her was a lopsided smile.

After another torturous moment, she added, "Do you love me?"

Sherlock's reply was almost inaudible. "Yes." So he bowed his head and kissed Rose just so he didn't have to see the disappointment in her eyes any longer.

They broke apart, and Sherlock watched as Rose retrieved her handbag and keys in silence. At least she remembered not to break the goodbye ritual, he thought. But why couldn't she remember the correct sequence in their sentiment exchange? She had just set herself up for disappointment. It wasn't his fault.

Rose opened the front door and glanced one more time in Sherlock's direction. She was grateful that he gave her a hint of a smile just before gifting her with one of his cheeky winks. Had he not done that, she would've found the image of the Consulting Detective, standing barefoot in her living room dressed in his pyjamas holding a potato masher just a little bit depressing and enormously alarming.

.

 


	46. And I Further Deduce

**The Chapter 46 - And I Further Deduce**

Sherlock let his head drop onto the back of his armchair. He closed his eyes and felt his body slacken and sink into the shape of the cushions. His mind wasn't functioning, so why should his body? He had spent most of midday and the early afternoon straightening Rose's flat. He had determined that her lamb korma stained sheets couldn't be salvaged, so he'd stuffed them into a garbage bag and had disposed of them in the bins at the back of her building on his way out.

Once home, he'd emptied his pockets, pausing to turn over the bar of coconut-scented soap in his hand that he'd retrieved from his dressing gown when at Leinster Gardens. He couldn't bring himself to throw it out, even though Rose had bought the same soap to keep in Sherlock's bathroom months ago. Now she would have two bars here that she would no longer use.

Sherlock had inhaled its scent one more time, triggering a small release of dopamine, before a heady rush of love and a mild touch of panic twisted and twined themselves in his mind, until they sank heavily into the pit of his stomach. He stowed the soap in the cabinet underneath his bathroom sink, filled the kettle, then sort of collapsed into his chair.

His mind remained blank and ineffectual. He didn't want tea, he needed coffee. No, not coffee, nicotine.

But not nicotine... something far stronger to give his brain the kickstart it needed. He was supposed to be working on Rose's case. He and Tonya had determined that the best way forward was to have John Garvie removed from the joint parliamentary committee and therefore out of Magnussen's line of sight. Tonya had left it to the detective to gather more information on the Member of Parliament, but how was he to progress? He needed something to aid him sharpen and refocus.

What was he thinking? More chemicals to counter the sludge his mind had become because of other chemicals he'd ingested? Where was he going with this?

Sherlock kept his eyes shut tight and let his mind wander where it wanted to. In less than five minutes, he was fast asleep.

There came a soft "Woo hoo!" accompanied by a rap of knuckles on the door.

Sherlock's eyes snapped open and he raised his head to find his landlady standing in the doorway.

"Sherlock, client!" she bid him in a stage whisper.

Sherlock quickly roused himself, both mentally and physically. He stood, his brain shaking off the last vestiges of sleep just before a stout man and a slim, rake of a teenage girl crossed the threshold into the detective's living area.

Not ten minutes later, the pair performed the same feat, but in reverse, but this time they were weighed down with the burden of disappointment and disillusionment the detective had gifted them with, due to his lack of insightful responses and the absence of his usually snappy deductions.

His excuse?

"Boring! You're wasting my time."

Sherlock listened to their footsteps die away on the stairs. Scanning the pair from head to toe had revealed not even a fragment of useful information. He was male, she female. Old, young, fat, thin. Nothing. He didn't even listen to the man's whining; there was no point.

He only had one case that was of the utmost importance to him, and he didn't even possess the mental capacity at this moment to focus on it.

He wondered how Rose was faring?

* * *

Rose returned home after her very short Friday shift at the home entertainment store to find her door wide open. Her moment of panic was cut short when she caught sight of a familiar hand creeping around the door to test the latch, accompanied by the dark, wavy locks and furrowed brow of a Consulting Detective. He grinned broadly at the sight of her, and stood up from his crouched position behind the open door.

"Hello Rose," he said, before bending over to kiss Rose's cheek. She tilted her head to receive her mandatory Sherlock Holmes greeting.

"What are you—"

"I've just improved your locking system," he said, jiggling the door handle by way of demonstration. "Much more secure, and a design even I can't break into... easily."

"Um..."

Sherlock offered two keys to his stunned companion, dropping them into the palm of her hand when she opened it automatically in response.

"One key for you, one for your landlord, and one," he said, holding up a third key and popping it into his trouser pocket, "for me."

Sherlock closed the door behind Rose as she slowly shed her coat.

"But why—"

"And I've taken the liberty of making a booking with a leading cleaning company; they specialise in end of tenancies, but I asked them to do your carpets, upholstery and curtains only. They'll also wash the walls and ceiling if you like. Get rid of that permanent cannabis smell you've got lingering. They'll be here in a fortnight, just before your landlord's inspection at the end of the month, if I'm not mistaken."

Rose nodded slowly, her mind finding it difficult to keep up.

"But..." she began, faltering a little as Sherlock headed to the kitchen. This was going to be awkward, she thought. That sort of thorough cleaning costs money. "Sherlock, I can't really afford—"

"It's all paid for," he said without turning around as he filled the kettle in the sink. "Pay me back when you can."

Rose studied the detective as he turned around and responded with a broad smile. It seemed they had reached an understanding in regard to Sherlock gifting Rose hundreds of pounds of his money. _Not_ for services rendered. She was only reluctantly allowing him to shout her a trip to Paris at the end of summer, because it was, well, _Paris_.

Sherlock strode toward her, his smile still in place.

"Hello, Rose," he said. "Did I give you a kiss already?"

Sherlock reached for her arms, and drew Rose in for another kiss—a soft, tentative, brushing of her lips this time.

When they parted, Rose said, "Well, your mood's picked up. Have you been here all day?"

She turned away from Sherlock, and scanned the rest of the flat.

"No, I cleaned up... a bit," Sherlock replied, loosely gesturing around the room. "Then I went home and worked on a case, and..." He paused, clearing his throat before continuing. "My mind wasn't operating at my usual capacity so I felt that a few hours spent performing manual labour would do the job of jumpstarting my brain—much like push-starting an old car with manual transmission. I felt that my time could be better spent here. It seems to have done the trick."

"You've done an amazing job," Rose gushed. "But I only wanted you to deal with the sheets. Are they still… soaking?" Her eyes darted to the kitchen sink, the only place her linen could have fit.

"Check the bedroom," he said.

Rose left the detective to head in the direction of her room.

"I hope this isn't a trick to get me into the bedroom," she called back.

Sherlock followed after her, and said, "I don't need tricks to lure you into the bedroom, Rose."

Rose gasped, then chuckled. Dropping backward onto the crisp, white sheets, she sighed, then smoothed a flat palm across the linen.

"This feels like yours," she said, her eyes twinkling up at Sherlock.

"It is," he replied, making himself comfortable beside Rose.

They lay with their feet hanging off the end of the bed in companionable silence for a while, both suddenly feeling the exhaustion from their late night the previous evening. Sherlock rolled to his side as Rose turned her head in his direction.

"I have half a dozen sets of exactly the same sheets," he said. "Yours were practically ruined, so I thought I'd bring one of my sets over. I'm here most nights anyway."

Rose was relieved that Sherlock was mindful of spending money on her unnecessarily.

"Well, thank you," she said. "That was really thoughtful of you. But where's…?" She raised her head and shoulders, propping herself up onto her elbows to scan the rest of the room. "Where's my quilt?"

"Upstairs," Sherlock replied, pulling himself upright to sit at the end of the bed. "Ms Small's washing machine is bigger than yours, so I borrowed hers. She didn't mind. It's currently going through its drying cycle now, so you can pick it up after you walk her dogs. I understand she's already spoken to you about that?"

Rose chuckled lightly at Sherlock having his finger on the pulse of her life.

"Yes, she has," she replied, also rising from the bed. "Some tournament thing she always goes to. Boxing, I think."

Rose pulled open her drawers to retrieve her fitness wear. Tonya's puppies would be getting quite anxious for their afternoon walk by now.

"Bare knuckle boxing," Sherlock said. He leant forward, resting elbows on knees as he looked over at Rose. "She's one of the organisers."

"Is that right?" Rose asked, laughing lightly. She began to shed her clothing as she spoke. "Although I think she also wanted to check how I was faring today. Why were you up there? Not just for my quilt?"

"To discuss the case," Sherlock replied.

Rose tried to stifle a deep sigh. She really didn't think Tonya and Sherlock had anything to work on. Magnussen had given her an opportunity to have her fifteen minutes of fame—by exploiting her affair with a Member of Parliament and telling all to one of Magnussen's rags, for which she would be financially well compensated. She had declined, so there was nothing further to discuss.

Tonya had made the point that if the media proprietor had wanted to encourage Rose to sell her story, then why did he put her offside by making such a lascivious gesture. Sherlock remarked that the man was a sick pervert, and he had probably thought it was a turn-on for Rose. The trio had then lapsed into silence at that remark, although Rose had internally shuddered.

"Rose," Sherlock said once she had finished changing out of her clothes. "Please don't take what I'm going to say next the wrong way."

Rose grabbed at a hair tie on top of her dresser and said, "It's not like you to pre-empt saying something offensive."

"It's because I realise you're in a delicate state at the moment."

Rose smiled ruefully as she swept her hair up into a ponytail. "Sherlock, I'm fine."

Sherlock rose from the bed and tapped his fingers against his thighs. Rose's heart stuttered in anticipation when she saw his furrowed brow.

"It's just that I…" Sherlock began. "I don't feel like I could have sex with you again… for a week at least. After last night, anyway. It was…"

Relief rippled through Rose, and she began to laugh.

"It's fine, Sherlock," she said, moving toward him. She reached out and squeezed his arm, her eyes shining with affection. "I think I'm the same. I don't want to have sex with you either."

At that remark, Sherlock's face suddenly slackened and his eyes grew huge and round.

"What?" he said.

Rose was surprised by his reaction. Thinking he had misunderstood, she added, "It's fine; I'm the same. I can't bear the thought of another round with you just now either."

Sherlock's expression remained unchanged.

"Why don't you want to have sex with me?"

"Sherlock," Rose said, laughing lightly. "For the same reason you said."

"But you've had more practise. You've had nights where you've had client upon client... well, not _client_ upon _client_ , more like _you_ upon client—"

"I'm trying really hard not to get offended."

"You know what I mean. You've had sex," he explained, waving a hand at her, "a lot. And I would think you've developed quite a stamina for it."

Rose opened her mouth to explain about the different mindset, the faking of her arousal with clients, and the endless tubes of lubricating gel. Surely Sherlock knew all this, so instead she threaded her fingers through his and said, "But I don't have enough stamina for Sherlock Holmes."

She locked eyes with his, her mouth curving into a smile, and Rose was relieved to see Sherlock's eyes crinkling at the corners as a smile grew on his face.

"I suppose so," he said, trying to maintain an air of nonchalance. But he gave up, and his grin broadened.

Rose stood on her toes and planted a quick kiss on the detective's lips. Turning from him to retrieve her trainers from the wardrobe, she said, "Are you going to wait here for me while I'm out walking?"

"God no," he said. "And listen to Scanlan getting off during the evening news?"

The pair left the bedroom for the living room where Rose sank into the armchair and began putting on her shoes while Sherlock explained that he had to see a man about some information he needed for a case, but he'd be back later that evening. The detective then drew on his coat, and Rose met him by the door.

"Ms Small said to bring her dogs via here before you take them back to her flat," Sherlock said as they exited into the passageway, "because they'll bark—"

"Yes, I know, she told me. They'll bark if anyone's inside."

They exchanged weary, knowing smiles with Sherlock reaching for Rose and drawing her into an embrace.

"And stay in her flat if you're at all worried," he advised her.

"I know."

"And I'll be here tonight."

"I'll be fine."

They regarded each other in a comfortable silence before Sherlock said, "See you later," and ducked his head, pressing a soft kiss to Rose's lips.

"Do you love me?" she whispered after Sherlock drew back a little.

His mouth hovered over hers as he whispered, "Yes."

"I love you, too."

One more kiss, and their goodbye ritual was complete. They parted ways with Sherlock striding the length of the passageway, and Rose turning for the stairwell.

* * *

Sherlock followed one of his usual backstreet routes for entering and leaving Rose's block of flats, in case he were ever followed. And these days, in light of Charles Augustus Magnussen's interest in Rosemarie Sulford, he was all the more cautious. The only person who had ever come close to finding Rose's place of residence was Philip Anderson, Sherlock's old time forensics foil, but more recently, the president of The Empty Hearse, the detective's fan club. Anderson had only stalked Sherlock as far as the corner of Leinster Terrace and Leinster Gardens, and had seen Sherlock entering number 23, the empty house he'd won from Tonya Small.

Tonight Sherlock's destination was Shoreditch and a tiny basement flat in Commercial Street. But first he stopped at The East Pizzeria for a very particular type of pizza, and for an odd assortment of groceries, he dropped into the nearest Bread and Milk shop that sold just a little more than bread and milk.

Once he reached his final destination, he pressed the buzzer by the door, and waited for the familiar, "Yep?"

"Pizza delivery," was his succinct reply, and he juggled pizza and groceries in one hand while he pushed on the door with the other after hearing the latch buzz in response.

He carefully navigated into the tiny entrance and through a slightly warped door to the stairwell that lead down to the basement. Sherlock wrinkled his nose at the stale odour of the well-worn, mouldy red carpet on the stairs as he wound his way downstairs. The door at the bottom was already ajar when he reached the basement level. His host, a heavy, sweaty twenty-something computer geek, gave Sherlock a vague nod in recognition and said, "You right?"

The young man stepped back to allow Sherlock to enter. The detective placed groceries and pizza onto a tiny black IKEA dining table that had one leg propped up by a tightly folded leaflet of some description.

"No capsicum, extra mushrooms?" the man bid Sherlock.

"On a tomato and basil base," Sherlock replied. "Frogger," he added, smiling amiably.

"What can I do for you, Mister 'olmes?" the man, Frogger, said, as he eagerly rifled through the plastic bag that held his treats, holding up each item in turn and emitting noises of delight.

Sherlock moved away from the table to the room that would have been a living area had it not been cluttered with tables and shelving crowded with electronic equipment from various ages. From his coat pocket he fished out a piece of notepaper, rolled around a wad of fifty pound notes and said, "I'd like a copy of the electronic diary of this man."

Frogger held a Lion chocolate bar in one greedy fist, its wrapper already torn open, as he retrieved the notes from the Consulting Detective. Sherlock folded his hands behind his back and strode further into what Frogger called his 'control room.' His breathing became shallow as the sweet smell of sweat mingled with the all-too-familiar residue of marijuana, and—dare he imagine it—semen all permeated his olfactory system.

"Government official," Frogger said eventually, his mouth already full of chocolate. "Gonna cost you more."

"No it won't," Sherlock said smoothly.

"When do you wannit?"

Sherlock made a point of looking at his watch.

"In five minutes?"

Frogger snorted, grabbed a packet of Doritos, and brushed past Sherlock on the way to one of his desktop computers.

"If you wannit that urgently," Frogger called over his shoulder, "could you at least remove the onions from me pizza?"

Small creases appeared in Sherlock's brow as he turned back to the pitiful excuse for a dining table. Seemed like a small price to pay.

"I don't recall you ever telling me you didn't like onions on your pizza," the detective said, as he opened the lid and quietly scanned the toppings to determine how involved this task was going to be.

"I like 'em to flavour the pizza," Frogger replied, as he rapidly typed away. "But I don't like to eat 'em."

Sherlock huffed a sigh as he removed the obvious slices only. He had no intention of digging around for them.

"Done," Frogger announced not three minutes later.

Sherlock wiped his fingers on one of the paper serviettes that had accompanied the pizza, and joined Frogger in the control room. The computer geek had just finished copying the file onto a memory stick.

Frogger swivelled around in his chair and held out the stick to the detective.

"You do realise it's only a static copy?"

"Yes," Sherlock replied.

"If the geezer updates 'is version—"

"I'm well aware of the problems inherent with offline copies of dynamic databases," Sherlock cut in. He only required an overall picture of the man's likely movements, but he didn't need to tell the likes of Frogger that.

He bid his computer hacker goodbye, and left the stifling confines of the basement flat for the relatively fresh air of a London summer evening.

Let the surveillance of John Garvie begin.

* * *

Sherlock had retreated to his flat to retrieve the necessary files from his own computer that he needed to access Garvie's electronic diary. When he returned to Leinster Gardens later that night, he was disappointed to discover Rose out on her balcony toking with the young man who supplied her with her weed—whatever his name was.

After Sherlock had ducked his head out through the sliding door to let Rose know of his arrival, he was briefly introduced to 'Billy.' Rose then followed Sherlock back inside when it became obvious that the detective was not going to join them.

"Are you sure you don't want to sit outside with us?" she asked, twining her arms around Sherlock's neck, her heavy-lidded eyes glazed and red-rimmed.

"No, I have work to do," Sherlock replied evenly. But he didn't want to let his disappointment with Rose's toking show, so he lightened his tone. "But you continue socialising. It's probably not a good idea for me to sit outside anyway. I might be visible from the street."

"Okay," Rose said slowly, easily convinced, if she had at all followed anything Sherlock had said. She pressed a kiss to Sherlock's lips and floated away outside.

Sherlock made himself comfortable in Rose's bedroom. He shed his shoes and jacket, opting to sit on her bed in his shirt, trousers and dressing gown, with Rose's computer perched on his lap.

He read through John Garvie's appointments and meetings for the next month, committing to memory the MP's usual weekly routine both within Parliament and in his constituency of Rockwell South. Sherlock noted, with a lead weight in his gut, that this coming week had Garvie sitting on the joint committee that was investigating the media's work ethics, this being the committee's second week of sittings but the first time they were hearing from Charles Augustus Magnussen. The detective needed to work quickly if he wanted to find a way to remove the MP from the committee.

Garvie's diary also contained a list of contacts, their addresses, and business names, where applicable. All were then filed somewhat haphazardly in Sherlock's Mind Palace.

From his position in the bedroom, Sherlock eventually heard laughter and conversation coming from Rose's living area. Obviously Rose and her visitor—Sherlock was never going to remember the guy's name—had come inside for snacks. The detective scowled to himself and tried to block them out. After an hour or so, when it was considerably quieter, the bedroom door slowly opened and Rose peered in.

"Billy's leaving now, if you want to say goodbye," she said.

"Why would I want to say goodbye?"

The confused expression on Rose's face prompted Sherlock to mentally kick himself. She was still traumatised by Magnussen's visit, despite her frequent mentioning of being "fine" and she had wanted to take away her stress by getting stoned, again, with a friend, and he, Sherlock, wasn't being supportive.

Sighing internally, Sherlock cast aside the computer and slid from the bed.

"Fine," he murmured, noting Rose's face light up before he followed her into the living area, and over to the front door where Billy stood waiting and pulling on his jacket.

Sherlock forced a pleasant smile to his face and extended a hand.

"It was good to meet you, ah..."

"Bill," Billy said, swiftly returning Sherlock's handshake. "Bill Wiggins. Rosie says you're a detective or summin'," Billy added, standing a little taller for reasons Sherlock couldn't immediately deduce. "Couldja gimme the once over 'n say summin' 'bout me?"

A challenge, Sherlock thought, narrowing his eyes. Standing next to him, Rose wrapped her arms around one of Sherlock's and said, "Something nice, Sherlock."

Billy's eyes widened in anticipation, and he tilted his chin up a little as if Sherlock needed to see all of him. Sherlock found the whole idea of someone getting excited about his impending deduction highly amusing. Then again, the guy was as high as a kite, so Sherlock decided to keep his observations to a fairly basic level.

He slowly raked his eyes over Rose's friend, from head to toe, then said, "Your fingertips are stained with food colouring, and the way you're holding them tells me the relative adhesive quality of the substance is definitely tacky, so high in sugar then." The detective narrowed his eyes in scrutiny, before giving in to his over-dramatised pause for the entertainment of the two stoners. "You've been eating jellybeans."

Billy chuckled and murmured, "Tha's brillian'. Go' any more?"

Rose squeezed Sherlock's arm in appreciation. A smile threatened to break on Sherlock's face, but instead he managed to produce an overly exaggerated pensive expression.

"I further deduce," he said, formalising his tone, "that you're wearing a recently purchased shirt. It hasn't been through the wash yet; the horizontal and vertical creases are very sharp, pressed to the degree you'll only find on shirts fresh out of the wrapper. People don't normally iron folds into their shirts."

Billy gaped, and Rose rubbed Sherlock's arm affectionately. She was leaning in to him quite heavily now, so Sherlock thought she would fall asleep at any moment.

"And that's enough to be going on with," Sherlock concluded.

"Man, tha's... tha's..." Billy looked at Rose for confirmation. "'e's good, in 'e?"

Rose released Sherlock's arm and chuckled. Then she held out her arms to her friend and said, "Good night, Billy."

Bill Wiggins returned her embrace, and murmured, "'Night, Rosie."

He released her, then stuck out his hand for Sherlock again.

"You're all right... ah... Mister...?"

"Sherlock, please," the detective said, making a concerted effort for Rose's benefit, and briefly shaking Billy's hand once more.

"Never met anyone called 'Sherlock' before. Is it Sco'ish?"

"I believe it is," Sherlock replied, and he pulled open the door and held it ajar for Billy.

"Can I call you Locky?" Billy asked before stepping into the passageway.

"No."

"Sherl?"

"Never."

"'ow 'bout 'Shezza'?"

"Nope," Sherlock replied, finally closing the door on their visitor.

Rose seemed to have been oblivious to the exchange and she wound her arms around Sherlock again, her eyes half-slits.

"Tired," she sighed.

"Then go to bed," Sherlock suggested, rubbing Rose's back affectionately. "I won't be far behind.

Rose wordlessly drifted away, leaving Sherlock to pack away the cereal boxes and turn out the lights. He used the bathroom before joining Rose in the bedroom. His girlfriend lay curled up underneath the quilt, fast asleep, the bedroom light glaring down at her from the ceiling.

Sherlock changed into pyjamas, switched on the sidetable lamp, then turned off the overhead light. He slid in beside Rose, and grabbed her computer once more. It was just before 10pm, the knowledge of which was a cause for concern for reasons Sherlock initially puzzled over.

Then he remembered: Rose was supposed to start work on her crisis centre email service, her shift being 10pm to 2am on Friday nights.

He regarded her inert form. Even if he managed to rouse her, she wouldn't be able to stay awake, nor would she be lucid enough to provide anyone with quality support. There was a duty of care at stake here.

Sherlock opened Rose's crisis centre email account. He knew her password, and he quickly retrieved a previous email she had sent to her supervisor on another night she had called in sick. He copied and pasted the same message, ' _Feeling poorly. I can't take my shift tonight. I'm so so sorry. —Rose,'_ and sent it to the same supervisor's email address as in the original message.

With Rose's work commitments taken care of, Sherlock resumed his study of John Garvie, further familiarising himself with the MP's movements.

* * *

The rest of the weekend followed along the same lines as previous weekends. Rose had her early Saturday morning shift at Roches, the home entertainment store, waking with her alarm and managing to appear fresh and alert even before Sherlock woke fully. The detective, who would usually return to Baker Street to work on cases, or drift over to Bart's to work on corpses, spent this Saturday afternoon skulking around Rockwell South, where the local member was holding a meeting for his constituents to rally support to keep a GP clinic in the area. Sherlock carefully observed how the man who had on several occasions fucked a prostitute wearing a school uniform interacted with his community.

John Garvie appeared affable and warm to young and old alike. Sherlock watched as the Member for Rockwell South stooped to talk to an elderly member of his constituency who was confined to a wheelchair. He took the woman's hand and held it between both of his as he spoke to her. Sherlock wondered if it were possible that the politician could feel Sherlock's eyes like daggers upon him.

Sherlock intended keeping an eye on the Member of Parliament when he attended a charity dinner with his wife that evening, but the detective was concerned that Rose would be at home again, slowly getting high by herself. He called in at Leinster Gardens in the early evening, when he knew that Rose would have finished work. He was relieved to discover that Rose had been invited to an engagement party for one of her workmates, from 7pm onwards, but she would only stay until 9pm, after which she would return home to take up her crisis counselling shift at 10pm. And if Sherlock liked, she said, she could come to his place to stay the rest of the night after she finished at 2am. They could then spend their usual Sundays cuddling in Baker Street.

This plan was fine by Sherlock, and he was content to leave Rose to her social outing. Meanwhile, the detective returned to Rockwell South and stalked around the grounds of a state school while the MP was inside eating quail scotch eggs, and mackerel. Sherlock was curious to see if a day of performing formal duties would result in Garvie opting for a late night visit to a seedy hotel where he would take in the services of a hired escort. Or were those days behind him?

With the politician and his wife returning to their modest home in one of Rockwell South's leafy suburbs, Sherlock resolved to return to Leinster Gardens and share a cup of tea with Rose and perhaps watch a late night movie on telly while she worked. For John Garvie's future obligatory outings, Sherlock decided to enlist the aid of his Homeless Network. There was no point in him wasting time, waiting for Garvie to finish dining, on the off chance the man would indulge in some lascivious activity later.

When Rose finished work at 2am, she nudged Sherlock awake. The pair took to the backstreets of Bayswater, before catching a cab somewhere in the vicinity of Kensington Gardens, arriving in Baker Street in the early hours.

They slept late, ate in, and snuggled in Sherlock's armchair by the fire until late on Sunday night. In the early hours of Monday morning, Rose left for home so she could get ready for work. Sherlock opted to stay awake since he was feeling particularly apprehensive for the week ahead.

This afternoon was the first session of the Joint Select Committee, Media and Communications, where they were calling for oral evidence from Charles Augustus Magnussen. Sherlock didn't tell Rose his plans for the day, in fact, he'd told her very little about his investigations into John Garvie's movements, and he quietly noted that she hadn't expressed any interest in his and Tonya's 'case.'

Sherlock left Baker Street for the Palace of Westminster just after lunch, intending to sit in on the committee meeting as an interested member of the public, since all evidentiary committee sessions were open to viewing by the general public.

As the cab drew closer to St James's Park, Sherlock opted out, deciding to walk the remainder of the route to the Houses of Parliament so he could smoke. And think.

Did he really believe Magnussen would let something slip if cornered—some off-handed remark about the Member for Rockwell South's predisposition for fucking sex workers? Specifically one named Rosemarie Sulford? It may never come up. And besides, Magnussen only knew Rose as one of Garvie's former mistresses. But he could still reveal her identity.

But what would Sherlock do if he did? Hasten to Rose's place of employment, safely squirrel her away to some place abroad—Paris—until the media attention died down sometime within the next five years?

Sherlock didn't know what use it would be to watch the committee meeting live, but he soon found himself before the Cromwell Green security entrance, finishing his cigarette—his third.

"And what brings you here, Brother Mine?"

Sherlock slowly tilted his head skywards as he exhaled, and watched the last of his cigarette smoke billow upwards before he turned to find the owner of the officious-sounding voice.

Mycroft Holmes, umbrella in hand, and looking quite out of place in the open air of a uncharacteristically sunny day, managed to look down at his younger brother through narrow eyes.

How much did Mycroft know, Sherlock thought. Obviously the omniscient prick had been alerted to Sherlock's presence in the area via his annoying CCTV network.

"I might go on a tour," Sherlock said casually. "I've never been."

Maintaining his same expression, Sherlock's older brother replied, "I believe the tour office is located outside Portcullis House."

"Oh, really? How bizarre."

"And while you're stalking the halls of Parliamentary offices," Mycroft said, narrowing his eyes even further, "Perhaps, as a small favour to me, you could set my office clock five minutes ahead. I do believe it's out."

"Couldn't you just get the people at Greenwich to move their clocks back to match yours?"

"Most amusing, Sherlock."

"Well, I'd better be off," Sherlock said, dropping his cigarette butt to the ground. "Big Ben beckons."

He strode away, back along St. Margaret Street to the familiar tune of his elder sibling calling out, "Sherlock!"

The Consulting Detective ignored him, as always. But now he had to use his alternate plan for viewing the Joint Select Committee session, and one he should've decided on earlier: watching the live webcast from the comfort of his armchair via the UK Parliament TV website. What an idiot he was to venture out. But why had his brother suddenly appeared? The lazy arse would've had to high-tail it from either his office in the bowels of Portcullis House, or from his equally out of the way office hidden in Parliament House. Or perhaps he resided in Whitehall today, specifically Downing Street or the Ministry of Defence? The man's presence was as pervasive as a rash. But Mycroft Holmes didn't have the physical attributes necessary to perform such an amazing feat of movement if he had just been notified of his brother's proximity in the area. So perhaps he was already on his way to viewing the session himself?

Sherlock stopped via a Boots pharmacy on Bridge Street to purchase nicotine patches before catching a cab back to Baker Street. Since he wasn't allowed to smoke inside his flat, he felt he still needed some sort of stimulant if he was going to study the committee meeting. At least that was what he felt he was about to do. Witnessing the destruction of the reputation of the woman he loved was an alternative he didn't like to contemplate.

Sherlock drank tea, and paced his living room rug while the meeting was in session and was being broadcast onto his laptop. Intermittently he studied the players. Charles Augustus Magnussen appeared cool and unaffected throughout proceedings, while John Garvie was a bumbling idiot. On the whole, there didn't appear to be anything to worry about. For the entire three hour session, Magnussen smoothly skirted around answering questions about his meetings with various Prime Ministers and Cabinet Ministers of the current age.

Once the meeting was concluded, Sherlock decided to venture out once more, and put his Homeless Network people in place to keep an eye on John Garvie and the benign locations he typically frequented. On his way downstairs, he bumped into Mrs Hudson, who was just on her way up to see him, it seemed.

"Oh, Sherlock," she said. "I was just coming up to ask if you wanted supper. You aren't usually here."

"Just stepping out, Mrs Hudson," the detective replied. "I'll only be an hour."

Sherlock decided that he would return, for supper, before leaving for Rose's flat for the night. He was usually too late to join Rose for dinner, and he found that he didn't normally like to eat the food she prepared anyway.

Once the Consulting Detective accomplished his task and was a hundred quid lighter in the wallet, he returned home to find a platter of cold meats and pasta salad waiting for him. He stared at the unappealing meal, suddenly longing for hot chips and ketchup, when he heard his landlady's footsteps on the stairs.

"Do you have any salad cream?" he asked, upon turning to the older woman.

Mrs Hudson held an odd expression on her face, and she had folded her hands together as if keeping herself composed.

"Mr Holmes," she bid him, and Sherlock tilted his head at her use of such a formal title, "You have a client."

Sherlock immediately recognised the stately woman who crossed the threshold; she was the chair of the Media and Communications Select Committee. Her lips were drawn into a thin line, and there was a quiet desperation in her eyes, that Sherlock read as ' _you are my last hope_.'

"Mr Holmes," she said, as Mrs Hudson retreated downstairs. "Allow me to introduce myself. I am—"

"—Lady Elizabeth Smallwood," Sherlock finished for her, and he extended his hand out to hers.


	47. Please Do Relax, This Is All For A Case

**Chapter 47 – Please Do Relax, This is All For a Case**

Sherlock slid out of his jacket, and lay it on the wooden bench seat next to him. Tonya Small leant closer, so Sherlock tilted his head, ready to listen. Both had their eyes fixed on the one-sided fight in the arena down below.

"He's tiring," Tonya said.

Sherlock had been watching the bout with a critical eye.

"He needs to step back from his opponent," the detective said, "and give himself room to move. All his punches are being smothered."

"Impressive, Mr Holmes. But I fear your advice has come too late."

The spectators roared, half in protest, the other half in support. The fighter on Tonya's card had sunken to his knees. Tonya immediately stood up, but it was clearly over. The boxer fell forward, favouring the cool caress of the canvas on his face than to go another round.

"Fire his trainer," Sherlock said, once the noise had dulled to a murmur. The organisers began to prepare for the next bout between new opponents and Ms Small took her seat again. "Your guy barely moved his feet."

Tonya chuckled beside him, then reached for Sherlock's right hand.

"I thought so," she mused, studying the detective's fingers, and running her thumb over his little finger. "A misalignment. I noticed when you were drinking tea the other night."

After Ms Small had released Sherlock's hand, the Consulting Detective curled it into a fist.

"A fracture of the metacarpal bone," he said, examining the row of knuckles. "My opponent ducked his head the wrong way. The bone wasn't aligned properly when it healed."

Tonya Small clucked her tongue, then said, "I have room on my card for another fighter. Just before Christmas. You have five months to—"

"No."

"Oh, think about it. I'm serious, darling."

The pair were silent for a moment as a second fight got underway.

"They come from all walks of life," Tonya said eventually.

"Yes, I know."

"But neither of these two belong to me," Tonya added. "The one in the blue shorts is a tax accountant, the other an electrician. I'll put you up against a librarian who's only lost one fight. He has strong shoulders."

Sherlock chuckled. "My boxing days are over."

"Yet you still brawl in the streets. Criminals or not. This will merely formalise something in which you already enjoy engaging."

"I'm not here for the fighting," Sherlock gently reminded his companion. He grabbed at his jacket and turned it over until he found the pocket in which he had stashed his cigarettes. He drew out the packet, offered a cigarette to Tonya Small, which she gratefully accepted, then lit them both.

Twenty minutes had elapsed since Sherlock had joined Tonya in the back garden of a wealthy bare knuckle boxing patron in the south east London suburb of Plumstead. It was the only way he could meet with the Clarence House Cannibal this evening. The detective had spent an ineffectual day debating his next move since taking on Lady Smallwood's case last night.

He hadn't told Rose of the Joint Committee Chairman's visit. He did text her to say that he would stay on at Baker Street that night rather than visit her in Leinster Gardens because he had a new case to work on.

Lady Smallwood's case had brought the issue of Charles Augustus Magnussen's motivations to prominence. The newspaper proprietor was more of a player than Sherlock had initially thought. Rose's case no longer just called for the removal of John Garvie from the committee. He needed to investigate all that was Magnussen.

Sherlock knew he was operating with a distinct disadvantage—he was too emotionally involved. There was no one more important to him than Rose, he thought, his heart stuttering, because he knew it had taken great pains to admit this to himself. But if he couldn't take a step back, like Ms Small's unfortunate boxer, he would definitely lose this fight.

Having Tonya Small on hand to bounce ideas off was a bit like having John Watson around, but in reverse. The Clarence House Cannibal provided a voice of reason, and she was quite intelligent, which was a bonus. While Ms Small also cared for Rose, she could be cool and calculated when the situation called for it. As it was, in the five minutes Sherlock and Tonya had discussed the addition to their case of Lady Smallwood's predicament, just before the first bout began, Tonya had already pointed out that Sherlock had now made the situation worse for Rose.

"As soon as you make contact with Mr Magnussen, his focus will be redirected to you," Tonya had said. "And what will he think of Rose, if he discovered that you were in a relationship with her—the very woman he wanted to use against John Garvie? What would Charles Augustus Magnussen think about coincidences?"

Then the bout had commenced, leaving Sherlock to watch it with an uncomfortable churning in his gut.

"I should drop the case," Sherlock said, as the bell rang and the fighters were confined to their corners with their respective cutmen in attendance. Forget Lady Smallwood's case, he thought. Just deal with Garvie.

"You'll do no such thing," Tonya replied.

"But you said—"

"We must be prepared for Magnussen's counter move. We will lay the foundations first, so that everything is in place before you even make contact with him."

"Foundations," Sherlock repeated. Why couldn't he keep up with Tonya? He was usually thinking miles ahead of everyone else; at the moment he was the mental equivalent of a straggler. Clearly the nicotine wasn't working.

"Charles Augustus Magnussen makes it his business to know everyone's darkest secrets, and to exploit them," Tonya explained. "You need to hide your strengths, and only show him your weaknesses. Do you see the electrician?" Tonya asked, indicating the boxing ring with her cigarette.

Sherlock blinked, to refocus both his gaze and his mind.

"He's keeping his left too low," he replied, "leaving himself wide open—"

"—for exploitation," Tonya finished. "But watch. I've seen him do this before."

Sherlock concentrated on the action before him. The electrician suddenly used his left hand to block a blow to the head from the tax accountant, momentarily surprising his opponent. The former then delivered a swift right hook to the accountant's jaw, followed by alternating blows to the man's abdomen. His last and final strike was to his opponent's face, and a dull thwack told everyone that the man's nose had been broken.

"They'll call it," Tonya said, and Sherlock knew she was correct. Blood was flowing in two thick streams down the accountant's face; this fight was over.

Sherlock took a deep drag on his cigarette. Some part of him missed this life—the adrenalin, the noise, the _smell._ He subconsciously balled his right hand into a fist.

"What's your main strength?" Tonya Small asked him, redirecting her gaze to the detective.

"My mind."

"And your weakness?"

Sherlock only hesitated for a second before answering, "My heart."

That would never have been his answer years ago. But Sherlock knew his heart was already a vulnerability that James Moriarty had exploited. And these days, it was even more so, with his feelings for Rose being expressed so freely whenever he was under the influence of something.

A smile lingered on Tonya Small's lips and she took a drag on her cigarette while she considered her next statement. The smoke curled around her mouth before she exhaled.

"We already know that it won't be a good idea to parade your romance with our darling Rosebud. So we'll have to remove your strength. Everyone knows who Sherlock Holmes is. Your reputation precedes you, and a man like Magnussen would definitely consider you a threat. Therefore we have to make Sherlock Holmes lose his mind. You've already hinted at that. You have a therapist."

"No," Sherlock quickly replied. "If you're thinking of touting Rose as my therapist then you're still connecting her to me. As far as Magnussen's concerned, there is to be no relationship between Rose Sulford and me, professional or otherwise."

"Then let's get you a new therapist."

Sherlock closed his eyes briefly as he exhaled.

"No."

"You can pretend to—"

"No."

Tonya sighed deeply and both of them continued to smoke in relative silence.

"Then let's highlight another weakness of yours, if not your _heart,_ " she said.

"I don't have any other weaknesses," Sherlock replied, taking a drag on his cigarette.

Tonya made a point of staring at the offending object, before a sly smile spread across her face.

"Nicotine?" Sherlock said with a scoff.

"Mr Holmes," Tonya began, tilting her head to one side. "We both know you've had a substance abuse problem with something a little stronger than nicotine."

Sherlock scrutinised the cigarette pinched between his middle and index fingers. He barely remembered lighting it.

"So what are you saying?" he asked, knowing full well what Tonya was suggesting. He didn't like to go there. His mind hardly ever went there these days.

"I think it's about time Sherlock Holmes had a relapse, don't you?"

Sherlock huffed a derisive laugh. Tonya was taking this case to new levels of stupid.

He said, "I'm not—"

" _Pretend_ , darling. I'm not suggesting you actually _use_ any of the drugs you may purchase."

Now it was Sherlock's turn to smile. Tonya was actually a genius. Why hadn't he thought of that? What had he been worried about?

"And while you're working on sullying your good reputation," Tonya continued, "I'll find out all I can about Mr Magnussen's media empire. Perhaps together we can infiltrate it. I know a few people."

Sherlock knitted his brows together. "You do?"

"Look around. What do you see?"

Sherlock _had_ been looking around. He knew these crowds, and as Tonya Small had pointed out soon after he'd arrived, there were less low life, and more respectable members of society in among the spectators, fighters, handlers and organisers. Tonya and her fellow promoters were attempting to legitimise the sport, and had eliminated all gambling on the outcome of the matches.

So there were solicitors, police officers—both retired and currently serving—chefs, students, carpenters, plumbers, and the odd journalist or two. The bout had a referee and a paramedic on site.

"I know people," Tonya was saying. "And I know people who know people. And somewhere along the way, somebody may owe me a favour or two."

Sherlock nodded faintly in recognition, thinking he knew what kind of favours Tonya called in.

"Magnussen's empire is vast," Tonya said, looking out amongst the crowd of spectators. "But it's made up of people just like this. And that may be his only weakness. But it's a weakness all the same, and easily exploited."

Tonya fixed Sherlock with a triumphant grin, one that cheshired her face from cheek to cheek. He couldn't help but smile in response. She was clearly enjoying this, he mused. But it was time to leave, he thought rather regretfully. He was actually enjoying watching the fighting. But he had a lot to do; who knew just how long this select committee would run for, or what pressures it would put on Magnussen, prompting him to expose people's dark secrets left, right and centre.

Sherlock now had another trip to make to Shoreditch—this time to a little curry place off Brick Lane. It was time to revisit his old haunts.

"Ms Small," he said upon rising, and he stooped to retrieve his jacket.

"Mr Holmes."

Sherlock cleared his throat and made to shuffle past Tonya Small, when she said, "We'll talk tomorrow, darling. But in the mean time, I'll add you to my card."

A smile played on Sherlock's lips, but he retorted, "You'll do no such thing."

"Perhaps autumn is too soon. How about winter?"

"I'll... think about it."

Tonya rose from her seat, and spoke to Sherlock in a low voice.

"So let's make it interesting. If you don't beat Charles Augustus Magnussen by a knockout after learning where to deliver the fatal blow, then I expect you to redeem yourself in the ring. A winter bout early next year. We're holding it in Leicestershire."

A dangerous glint flashed in Sherlock's eyes, and his mouth curved into a smile. Why was he making all of the sacrifices? What did Tonya have to lose? She seemed to be holding all the cards, he conceded.

"Fine," Sherlock replied. And the deal was struck.

* * *

Sherlock was barely through Rose's door when she was upon him, and she was obviously upset.

"Why are you here?" she said. "You shouldn't come here anymore!"

"What? Why?" Sherlock quickly shut the door behind him, but remained standing there, where Rose had accosted him.

"Because he'll be following you now."

It took a moment for Sherlock to catch on. Had Tonya already spoken to Rose tonight about Lady Smallwood's visit, in between the time it took Sherlock to leave south east London, withdraw cash from one of his many bank accounts then travel to Brick Lane via a circuitous route and purchase a few wraps of coke? Admittedly, that _had_ taken him a bit of time. He tried to avoid his brother's CCTV network, and he had more than one contact to re-establish a business relationship with. Of sorts. But now it was quite late.

"Rose," Sherlock said, gently reaching for her arms. "It's okay. I've haven't made contact with Magnussen yet. He doesn't know I'm involved."

"I'm sorry. I don't think I really understood what Tonya was going on about." Rose moved away from Sherlock, allowing the detective to discard his coat at least. "She speaks so calmly," Rose continued, turning to face Sherlock, "like nothing is a big deal."

"Yes, I know," Sherlock said, a smile creeping onto his face. "But it's good to have her in our corner." He smiled again, to himself this time, as he hung up his coat. He'd better quit with the boxing metaphors. But he _had_ missed that life. Winter, did she say?

Rose stood in the middle of the living room, her arms folded in front of her.

"And even if I _had_ contacted Magnussen," Sherlock explained, as he approached his girlfriend, "I'm pretty adept at finding a route that nobody could follow, should I be under surveillance. You don't have anything to worry about." He stopped in front of Rose, hoping sincerity shone in his eyes. "Can we start the evening again?" he asked, embracing her lightly.

Rose nodded imperceptibly, so Sherlock lowered his face to hers, sampling her lips until they parted for him. Dopamine flooded his system as he held her tightly and kissed her with a fierce kind of possession. _Definite disadvantage_ , he thought again of his lack of composure while working on this case. His emotions were all over the shop. And now he had a pocket full of cocaine. Not a good mix.

Rose eased out of their kiss, but she stayed within Sherlock's embrace.

"Are you okay with Tonya's plans for me?" she asked.

Sherlock's heart rate increased until he could feel panic pulsing in his ears. _Tonya has plans for Rose? Doing what?_ Sherlock's mind had already raced to Tonya's plans for himself—a drug relapse. Did the Clarence House Cannibal want Rose to work in a brothel again? To what end?

"What?" he asked, as quickly as possible. His gaze was intense—if looks could _will_ the words out of another.

"Don't you know?"

"Of course I don't know, Rose!"

Rose gaped a little at Sherlock's sudden outburst.

"It's really not that bad."

Sherlock willed himself to exhale slowly. "Sorry," he said. It seemed Rose wasn't the only one on edge tonight.

He released Rose from his embrace, and followed her into the kitchen. It was late enough to share a pot of tea.

"She suggested I work for the ASXX," Rose explained as she filled the kettle.

Sherlock bowed his head and rubbed at the creases in his brow, as if to knead happy thoughts into his mind. The ASXX—the Anti-SeXXploitation Project—was the organisation that gave Sherlock the idea, via Tonya Small, that he had contributed to the ongoing sexual exploitation of women by seeking the services of a sex worker so he could lose his virginity. He slowly raised his head again and asked, "Doing what?"

"Counselling," Rose replied, with a flick of the kettle switch. "Helping sex workers exit the industry. It's exactly what I needed last year, remember? But all I found available was a group counselling session. I can offer individual sessions, and I think some of the women will really benefit from a one on one more private service."

Sherlock bit his tongue. A quip about _one on one_ in reference to sex workers was just begging to be made. But he tilted his head as if ruminating on the idea a bit longer.

"That's... good. I guess," he replied.

Rose drew up in front of Sherlock, and entwined her arms around his neck.

"I knew you'd be okay with it," she gushed. "And I think I can really make a difference. Of course, it will get my counselling hours up too, and I'll even get a little bit of pocket money on the side. And that's always good, isn't it?"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. Why had this idea just come out of the blue?

"But what's the actual point to this... job? Why did Tonya suggest this to you?"

Rose dragged her hands down to rest on Sherlock's chest. She studied them for a few seconds, before returning her gaze to Sherlock. She slowly exhaled.

"It's just in case I catch Magnussen's eye again, and I somehow get linked to the industry, or the brothel in Lyceum Street, or identified as an escort who visited Garvie in a hotel room. I'll be creating a new connection between me and the sex industry." Sherlock's brow had been furrowed the whole time Rose had been talking, but she continued anyway. "I can always say I was offering counselling to prostitutes, just like I was doing with the strippers at the Rendezvous. And when I was studying at uni, there were all these papers we had to write. I mean, there's the one I wrote about you. No names, of course, but it does mention a prostitute. Who's to say it wasn't someone I'd met in the brothel, who'd agreed to be a subject for me?"

"Sounds..." _Weak as piss._ "Feasible," Sherlock finished, and was relieved to see Rose's face brighten. It wasn't a good cover story, but it wasn't that far-fetched either, and it seemed to give Rose peace of mind. Who was he to argue with the genius of Tonya Small?

Satisfied, Rose turned from Sherlock to prepare their tea. Sherlock left to change into pyjamas, and once dressed, he joined Rose in the living room. It was time for a late night snuggle in front of the telly. They hadn't done that in an age.

"Oh, just in case you go rifling through my pockets," Sherlock said offhandedly, "You may find a few wraps of cocaine. Nothing to alarm yourself about."

"I know," Rose said, settling by Sherlock's side. "Tonya told me. It's not as if you're really going to be using, is it?"

"No," Sherlock replied, taking a quick sip of tea, burning his tongue in the process.

"What will you do with it all? Flush the coke down the toilet?"

Sherlock gently rubbed Rose's arm as they both stared at the flickering images on the TV screen. Rose had muted the sound.

"Dunno," he replied. "Thought I might get it analysed at the lab. It's been quite a few years. I'm curious to know how much it's cut these days."

Rose stifled a yawn, and Sherlock knew she wasn't far off falling asleep. They both stared in silence at the soundless images.

"Sherlock," Rose said after a fashion.

"Mmm?"

"Do you think this will be over by the time we go to Paris? Because we probably need to book some things, and I'd hate to have to cancel all our reservations if Magnussen's still watching us and we can't go."

Sherlock held Rose tightly, and pressed his lips to the top of her head. _A trip to Paris at the end of August?_ _That was three months away._

"I'm certain of it," he replied.

Rose didn't say any more, and Sherlock eventually felt her body grow heavy in his arms. He reached for the remote control and pointed it at the telly, carefully raising the volume until he could just hear it. He didn't know why he'd done that; he definitely wasn't interested in the movie.

He _had_ felt a small twinge, however, when Rose snuggled into his neck—that tiny spark of arousal that would usually result in him pressing himself against Rose and brushing her lips lightly with his until she woke and they could adjourn to the bedroom. How long had it been since they'd made love? Not that he would call what they did when they were both stoned _making love_. Still, he didn't want to be the one to instigate it, especially since he'd told her that he wanted a break for at least a week.

Sherlock closed his eyes and let his limbs slacken. His thoughts drifted to a little known Tibetan Monastery on the road to Mount Everest, just out of Shigatse, allowing his mind to discard all notions of sexual desire. This state of mind would be a lot more difficult to achieve if he had already started with an erection, but on this occasion, he had begun his transcendental mental exercise at just the right time. Mind over matter. And Sherlock had mastered it to perfection.

* * *

Rose was late, both Tonya and Sherlock agreed. The puppies were getting restless and they were _yelping._ Sherlock couldn't concentrate as he sat in Tonya Small's living room, reading the financial records of CAM Global News. Tonya had done well to acquire so much information in so short a time, but Sherlock was regretting making himself comfortable in her flat in order to study them.

Rose was due to accompany Tonya on their early evening walk around Bayswater with Tonya's puppies. The Clarence House Cannibal's 'babies' were barking at a pitch that Sherlock found quite painful to his ears.

Sherlock cast the end of year financial report aside, and reached for the human resources report. Apparently Tonya knew a business manager who worked in the Human Resources division of CAM Global News. Sherlock wondered how many appendages the HR business manager was missing.

Tonya was cooing to her puppies in the kitchen. It was all too much for Sherlock, so he grabbed the remaining papers, stood up, and left the flat without so much as a goodbye. It was about time Tonya Small learnt about the real Sherlock Holmes anyway, he thought. His mind was working quite efficiently, and he was almost back to his old self. He had little time for social courtesies.

As he strode along the passageway toward the stairwell, Sherlock encountered Rose hastening in the opposite direction.

"You're late," he said, without stopping.

He was almost to the end of the passageway when he heard Rose call out tentatively, "Sherlock?"

He stopped abruptly before turning around. Rose was slowly making her way toward him, her brows arched quizzically.

"Are you okay?" she asked.

Sherlock's insides roiled with the acknowledgement that he had practically brushed past Rose as if she meant little to him.

"I'm... fine," he replied. He suddenly didn't feel fine; a new conflict had entered his mind—dispense with emotion, and allow cold, hard reason to seep into everything he said and did. Is that what he needed in order to succeed on this case?

Rose pulled up in front of him, reached out and gently touched his arm.

"Are you sure?" she asked, with a tilt of her head. "Did Tonya say something to you?"

Sherlock forced a reassuring smile to his face. "No. I'm just busy." He held up the folder of papers he was carrying and said, "I have a lot of research to conduct, and the noise inside her flat was doing my head in."

As if on cue, the Clarence House Cannibal's 'babies' commenced yapping once more prompting Rose and Sherlock to exchange weary smiles.

"I'd better get going then," Rose said. "Are you going home now?"

"No. Just downstairs to your flat."

Rose's expression softened at that news, so Sherlock bowed his head and pressed a soft kiss to her cheek. He lingered a little longer than necessary.

"I'll see you soon," he bid her in a low voice, and he gave her a tiny smile before he turned and made for the stairwell.

Sherlock's mind was buzzing with a multitude of thoughts, and he mentally took a swat at any guilt-ridden notions associated with Rose. During any true Mind Palace wanderings, Sherlock would physically stop where he was, close his eyes, and engage his mind fully. Without being completely conscious of it, Sherlock had pulled up in front of Rose's door. All of the data he had gleaned from the documents with which Ms Small had provided him whizzed by his mind's eye. He discarded those that he deemed irrelevant, and carefully categorised and filed those that may become important later.

Once he opened his eyes again, it took Sherlock a few seconds to register just where he was. He let himself into Rose's flat, then stood stock still once more. The contents of one document had made itself clear in his mind.

"Phillip Bonce," he muttered to himself, his eyes widening. "Phillip Bonce—PBSS, _Phillip Bonce Security Services_. I know his work!"

Sherlock strode to Rose's dining table and dumped the folder of papers onto it. He spread the documents across the length and breadth of the table, then swiftly shed his coat as his eyes rapidly scanned the contents of every piece of paper.

 _Phillip Bonce, Security Consultant for over thirty years_ , Sherlock recited in his head. He knew this man's credentials because Sherlock, while investigating cases, had worked alongside teams that the expert had put in place in various organisations around the United Kingdom. Bonce was currently the head of the Corporate Security Division of CAM Global News, and well respected throughout the security industry. However, with Sherlock Holmes having the inside scoop in regard to security for many of Bonce's previous clients, the Consulting Detective knew something that many others didn't: Phillip Bonce's security protocols were largely _the same_ in many of the organisations at which he'd consulted. Therefore, Sherlock was quite confident that he knew how security was implemented at CAM Global News.

The composition of the security team would be largely the same, Sherlock mused, shuffling papers around both in his mind and on the table top. He grabbed a thin document containing an outline of the security protocols. It was only an Executive Summary, but it would give Sherlock a start.

Sherlock stretched out on Rose's sofa, alternately examining the document in his hand and recalling from his Mind Palace what he knew about PBSS's Executive Protection plans and Emergency Service protocols. While he tried to fit what he knew into the corporate makeup of CAM Global News, he reached out to grab his cup of tea from the coffee table. He took a sip, then grimaced in pain. It was scalding hot. _That means it was freshly brewed. And I don't remember getting up to make a cup of tea. So that could only mean—_

"Did you burn yourself?" Rose asked, as she walked into the living room with her own cup of tea in one hand, and a psychology textbook in the other. "I told you it was hot since we only had a little bit of milk left."

Sherlock swung his legs from the sofa and sat up. Two creases appeared in his brow as he watched Rose make herself comfortable in the armchair across from him.

"How long have you been here?"

A tiny laugh escaped Rose.

"Just a couple of hours," she replied. "Don't you remember?"

"If I did, why would I be asking? I bumped into you outside Tonya's flat only a moment ago."

"Okay, now you're scaring me. I came home from our walk, kissed you on the forehead and said I needed a shower. You said 'mmm.' Then I asked how you were going, and you didn't reply at all, so I left you to it. I made a salad for dinner and you didn't touch yours so it's back in the fridge, by the way. When I asked if you wanted a cuppa you said, 'mmm' again. So I put it down beside you and told you to let it cool for a bit because it doesn't have as much milk in it as you usually like. There wasn't much left in the carton."

Sherlock bowed his head, and ran his fingers through his hair, exhaling deeply.

"You okay?" Rose asked.

"I'm not sure I'm making fast enough progress," he muttered, doubt and exasperation clashing in his mind. This happened to him a lot. He'd look up, and half a day had passed. He might retreat into his Mind Palace, and think he was working efficiently and the next time he came out, the game may be lost. Rose could be outed by Magnussen while the great Consulting Detective was locked away with his own thoughts.

Sherlock abruptly stood. He insides heaved monstrously and he found his breath shortening. He couldn't do this. He wasn't going to win. He rapidly tapped his fingertips against his thigh as he considered his options.

"Sherlock. Can I help with anything? I'm actually quite good with research." Rose had stood and was looking over the documents that covered the dining table. "Tonya said your way in was through the staff. Did you identify anyone?" She turned to face Sherlock once more.

Sherlock's mind slowly kicked into gear. _Staff._ He had been looking at this case from the wrong angle.

 _Magnussen's empire is vast_ , Tonya had said to him. _But it's made up of people... and that may be his only weakness._

Sherlock had thought Tonya's _people_ were only useful for getting him this information, but they could still be used to open doors for him. Why hadn't he looked closer at the people! Not the security protocols, or the executive protection plans. The security personnel!

"Wait..." Sherlock said, turning back to the document he had left lying on the sofa. "People, yes, security staff." He stooped to retrieve it as Rose looked on. "Of course!"

Sherlock stepped around the coffee table and gave Rose a peck on the cheek.

"Rose, you're a genius!"

He strode away from her to the door. Grabbing his coat, he said, "The security personnel, of course! His only weakness."

"Where are you going at this hour?"

"To stalk a handful of security guards. Don't wait up!"

* * *

Rose didn't wait up, but she was woken up rather rudely by the Consulting Detective upon his return from God's knows where.

"What?" she murmured, and then squinted at being blinded by the light of her bedside lamp that Sherlock had switched on.

"You offered to help; now's your chance. Pick one of these three, or all three if you like. But they may talk, compare notes, that kind of thing. Men do, apparently. So maybe just the one. I've even got the names of the pubs they like to frequent."

Sherlock was holding up three pieces of paper in front of Rose's face.

"Sherlock, wait," Rose said, propping herself up onto her elbows. She groggily eyed the digital clock on the table beside her. "Oh, fuck. It's 3am." She sank back down again.

"You said you'd help," Sherlock protested, lowering the sheets of paper that she now noticed held the staff profiles of three CAM Global News male employees.

"Not at this hour."

"The hour's irrelevant," Sherlock replied dismissively. "Just pick one. I have all the information you need. I've got the contents of their rubbish bins, which tells me gym membership, favourite food groups—"

"You what?"

Rose was slowly coming out of her sleep-induced stupor. This behaviour of Sherlock's was bordering on disturbing, she could see that now. But really, what did she know about him when he was working on a case? This one—hers and Lady Smallwood's—was really the first case she'd observed Sherlock working full-time. Perhaps he was always like this? Methodical and contemplative one minute, then frantic, spontaneous and seemingly random the next.

"Pick one," Sherlock said again. "And flirt and... I don't know. Whatever you do."

There were alarm bells now, and they were ringing in Rose's head.

"You want me to what?"

"Just to get his security access card, Rose. And maybe find out shifts and Magnussen's movements and things. You know." Sherlock waved a flippant hand at Rose. "Find out stuff. Do what you do best."

Rose was wide awake now. Her muscles began to tense, and she clenched her jaw before asking, "Exactly _what_ do I do best?"


	48. I Met Her At Your Wedding

**Chapter 48 – I Met Her At Your Wedding**

Sherlock carefully scrutinised Rose. Why was she getting upset? Didn't she have any confidence in her ability to talk to people and put them at ease? All these months of online crisis centre work and now she's supposedly going to offer counselling to sex workers who want to exit the—

_Oh!_

_Rose is staring at me as if I were the most insensitive bastard in the world because she thinks I'm asking her to have—"_

"It's not about sex, Rose! I'm talking about your ability to talk to and listen to others and get them to trust you. Then you can steal their wallets. Okay?"

Rose studied Sherlock's eyes for a few seconds longer before her face softened.

"Lucky for you," she said. "But you _did_ say flirt. I'm still not going to talk about this at three o'clock in the morning."

"Fine," Sherlock replied, straightening up. "I'll leave these here for you to look at later, then you can choose one to meet."

He deposited the security guard profiles—the male candidates for CAM Global News infiltration—onto Rose's bedside table, then stood up.

"Where are you going?" Rose asked in surprise.

"I've got things to do."

"Sherlock, that's ridiculous. You need sleep."

"Sleep? No sleep's dull."

He wandered out of the bedroom, grabbed his coat and left the flat. At some stage he lit a cigarette and a few seconds after that, his phone beeped with a message from Rose.

_Did you just leave?_

Sherlock's heart twinged. He almost wanted to turn around and go back. Slip naked between the sheets, curl his body around Rose and sleep for a hundred years. Forget about all this. But _he had work to do_ , and before that, he needed space to _think_.

He replied, _Yes I did. But you go back to sleep. You have work all day, then I expect you to hang out in a pub all evening._

Rose didn't reply so Sherlock continued on in his early morning walk, satisfied that Rose had acquiesced. Hours later, he found himself seated on Bart's rooftop, leaning against a ventilation shaft and watching dawn chase the night away.

He actually needed sustenance. Not sleep. Sleep was for boring idiots. All these years of John Watson nagging him to eat (or was it two years chasing and dismantling criminal networks around Europe?) had Sherlock realise the importance of the daily meal if he was going on a sustained pursuit. And this was going to be one such occasion. Just what was he pursuing, exactly?

He stole down to the hospital canteen, where the kitchen staff were preparing breakfast. He grabbed a bowl of baked beans, a carton of yoghurt, and a banana, strutting about as if he owned the joint. Nobody batted an eyelid. He'd perfected this pantomime in Berlin, or had it been Salzburg?

Sherlock consumed the first two items in the empty cafeteria, then pocketed the banana and left the hospital. He had been wondering how to use Magnussen's employees to his advantage. To gain inspiration, he needed a full employee list, not just the security company's employees. He remembered seeing such a list in hardcopy, in amongst the documents Tonya Small had acquired for him, but he had only noted its existence, and not its contents.

He caught a cab back to Bayswater, and walked a maze of backstreets until he could navigate unseen along the alleyway behind the Leinster Gardens block of flats.

* * *

Rose had just gulped down the last of her tea when Sherlock entered her flat. She was almost fully dressed for a day at Roches, the home entertainment store.

"Get everything you wanted done?" she asked.

"Almost. I was thinking. Never underestimate the power of quiet contemplation."

"I won't," Rose said, with a quiet chuckle to herself as Sherlock shed his coat.

He frowned at some foreign object he had discovered in one of the pockets as he was hanging up his Belstaff by the door. "Would you like a banana?"

"I'm fine thanks. I'm just about to leave. Are you going to have a sleep now?"

Sherlock carried his banana as he crossed the living room looking for all the world like a man who had no intention of sleeping.

"No, Rose," he said, stopping in front of the dining table, and dropping the banana onto it. He began to shuffle papers around again. "Weren't you listening?"

"I guess not," Rose said, with a sigh. She came up alongside Sherlock, and gently rubbed his arm. "I'm heading off to work now."

"Mmm," Sherlock said in response, without lifting his eyes from the HR list he'd found.

"So I'm waiting for my goodbye kiss."

Sherlock turned over to the next page.

"Sherlock."

"What?" he said, turning his head toward Rose. "Oh. Goodbye, Rose."

He leant forward and planted a quick kiss on Rose's lips. Rose grabbed his lapels and said, "Let me remind you what a goodbye kiss entails."

Rose pressed a soft kiss to Sherlock's lips, then she increased pressure, expecting Sherlock to part his lips so she could dart her tongue inside. Instead his mouth remained closed. Not firmly closed, for his lips still felt pliable, but he made no moves to enhance the experience. Rose drew back, her brow furrowed.

Sherlock appeared to be staring into space. Suddenly his eyes widened and he murmured, "Janine Hawkins." He quickly lifted up the HR list that was still in his hand, and stepped back from Rose, giving himself room to turn back to the first page. "She's Magnussen's PA."

"What?" Rose asked, still bewildered by the non-existent kiss.

"There, Rose," Sherlock said, pointing to an entry at the top of the page. "Janine Hawkins! How did I miss that?" He thrust the document at Rose, and strode away from her.

Rose looked at the name Sherlock had pointed to. It seemed vaguely familiar.

"It can't be a coincidence," Sherlock muttered, pacing across Rose's floor. "The universe is rarely so lazy."

"Well, I have to go," Rose said, shrugging to herself and dropping the employee list to her side.

"Still, I can't give a horse a gift… in it's mouth, or something."

Rose smiled ruefully as she approached Sherlock.

" _You can't look a gift horse in the mouth_ ," she said, then she held out the list to him. "Here's your gift horse. I have to go." She strode over to the door and grabbed at her coat. "Tell me about her later. It sounds like you've got a way in. That's great."

She drew her coat around her, then felt for her keys. Sherlock had waved a hand at her, without looking up from his document. Rose wasn't sure if it was a half-hearted wave goodbye, or an irritated dismissal. She wondered if she should even bother trying to instigate their goodbye ritual again. Sherlock was muttering to himself and had turned his back on Rose as he scrutinised the list.

Rose drew out her keys and unlocked the deadbolts.

From behind her, Sherlock called, "Rose."

Rose left her key in the lock and met Sherlock halfway across the floor. She was just about to twine her arms around his neck and ask if he loved her, when Sherlock held up the list again.

"Janine Hawkins is Charles Augustus Magnussen's personal assistant. But she's much more than that, Rose. She was one of Mary Morstan's bridesmaids."

Rose's stomach dropped an inch. "Oh," she said, her declarations of love dying on her lips. That Janine.

"And!" Sherlock exclaimed so suddenly he almost made Rose jump. "She actually likes me. Which is unusual for a woman."

"Not really," Rose remarked in a small voice.

Sherlock turned from her, and drifted away.

"Now how can I use that to my advantage?" he murmured. He headed toward the kitchen as Rose made for the front door once more.

She told herself that Sherlock was busy sorting things out; he was working on her case, so she should really cut him some slack.

"Just making tea," Sherlock called back from the kitchen. "Do you want a cup?"

But Rose had exited into the passageway, and had quietly closed the door behind her.

* * *

Sherlock heard the deadbolts sliding back into place and strode into the living area.

"Rose?"

The absence of his girlfriend initially stunned Sherlock. Her coat was missing, and her handbag. Had she left for work already?

"Bit rude," he muttered to himself as he headed back toward the kitchen. "I was just making tea."

He fished his mobile out from his jacket pocket, and sent Rose the same text she had sent him in the early hours:

_Did you just leave?_

He placed the phone down onto the counter, next to his mug, to finish making his tea. When Rose's reply came in, he glanced at the screen, and his breath hitched.

_Sorry yes. You seemed busy and I really had to go. I love you!_

The goodbye ritual! He'd missed it, and now Rose wouldn't get _her_ fix for the day.

Sherlock absentmindedly dunked his teabag several more times as he turned over Rose's last three words in his mind.

_I love you!_

He could just type back his response. He may not be able to vocalise the words, but surely he wouldn't have any difficulty pressing the letters on his phone.

_I love you, too._

_Go on. Just do it._

Sherlock continued jiggling the tea bag and scowling at his phone.

_Just type the fucking words. You're a genius for Christ's sake._

But he couldn't. And the more he jiggled, the less likely it was going to be that he would respond at all. And now far too much time had passed. Rose would know he had been overthinking it, and his response would've lost all spontaneity.

 _Yes, that's right. Spontaneity_ , he thought in an effort to reassure himself that it was definitely too late to reply.

He dropped the tea bag onto the counter then turned to grab the milk from the fridge. Only there wasn't any. Rose's scalding hot tea last night! They'd used up all the milk. Sherlock narrowed his eyes in scrutiny of the fridge contents. But Rose was finishing a beverage when he entered the flat. Would she drink black tea? He continued to stare at the items in the fridge.

_A coffee mug._

_Now who would…?_

He inspected the mug and found that it contained milk. So Rose had borrowed a cup of milk from Ms Small this morning. And now the milk was fixing its accusatory milky eyes at Sherlock and reminding him that he had contributed to the ongoing sexual exploitation of women by men.

Sherlock tutted and took the mug of milk back to his half-prepared tea. And he was going to have to pour the milk out of a coffee mug. Not an easy thing to do because there was no spout. But if he tipped it quickly?

"You fucking idiot!" he said out loud as the milk coursed a determined path along the side of the coffee mug and onto the counter top, and not into his tea at all.

Sherlock plonked the mug of milk next to his tea. He leaned heavily onto the counter and dropped his head.

"I'm a fucking genius and a graduate chemist," he murmured to himself. How was he not capable of pouring one liquid into another? _Idiot!_

His phone chimed as if in confirmation.

"Oh, don't you start," he retorted, straightening up, then grabbing the phone from beside the two silently mocking cups.

_Do you love me?_

And now he felt like a callous dickhead.

Rose had probably waited for his rely, thinking along the same lines as he had—that Sherlock Holmes was perfectly capable of bashing out a reply. And when he hadn't, she must've realised he was more emotionally stunted than she'd initially thought and obviously needed prompting.

Wearily he began to type _Y – E_ , until his phone's predictive text function ever so helpfully listed _Yes_ as a suggested word. _Because you need help typing three letters you moronic, insensitive bastard,_ it appeared to be saying.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at his phone, as if in the issuing of a challenge. He pressed Rose's contact details, and then clicked on the Call button.

 _I'll show you_ , he thought, directing his ire onto all three inanimate objects: the two mugs and his phone.

"Hello!" Rose appeared to be laughing. The surrounding sounds indicated she was entering the Undergound.

"I do, Rose," Sherlock said.

"Sorry, can't hear you. What?"

"I DO!" he shouted.

Rose chuckled again. "I know you do, Sherlock. Thank you. I'll see you later!"

The call ended, and Sherlock felt strangely invigorated. He puffed out his chest and said, "There, you see? You tried to distract me…" He reached over and grabbed at the HR listing that he'd placed next to the kettle earlier. "From this," he added, glaring at the conspiring beverage making items. All of them. "Sentiment!" he spat.

Faffing about with forgotten goodbye rituals had disrupted his thought processes on the case. He fixed one more accusatory glare at the two mugs and watched as a single drop of milk fell to the floor. Hardening his heart against crying spillt milk, Sherlock made a beeline for the living room. He stretched out onto the sofa, the list of employees on his chest, and he closed his eyes.

He needed to _think_. How to use Janine to get to Magnussen, and how to make first contact with her. If only there were post-wedding duties to perform, then he'd have an excuse to ring or email her.

In two seconds, Sherlock Holmes was fast asleep.

* * *

Sherlock's eyes snapped open three hours later.

 _The wedding photos!_ He swiftly sat up, dropping his feet to the ground and vigorously ruffling his hair. Where were they? They hadn't been distributed because…

_Oh! The camera must still be in Berkshire._

Sherlock stood, frantically looked around for his phone, then found it again in the kitchen. He rapidly dialled his favourite Detective Inspector's number and waited rather impatiently for the D.I. to pick up. Ignoring the fact that the Scotland Yard detective's message clearly began with, "You have phoned Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade," Sherlock gushed out the following message, "Graham. The photos from John's wedding. Where's the camera? What have you done with it?" Ending the call and dropping his phone into his pocket, Sherlock decided to return to Baker Street. If he was going to wait around for either the camera or the camera's memory card to be sent to him, then he couldn't stay here, in Leinster Gardens.

* * *

Rose's chest heaved with exhaustion. She'd left Tonya and her puppies and decided to jog the rest of the way home. What a bad idea that was. She was so unfit! It took her two attempts to unlock the deadbolts, but then her door was opened for her.

"What are you doing?" Sherlock asked, his brow furrowed as he held the door ajar.

"My fingers were slipping," Rose replied. She pushed past Sherlock and into the flat. "I went for a jog. I'm so fucking exhausted."

"Why were you doing that?"

Sherlock locked the door and followed after Rose as she strode toward the kitchen. Rose noted her laptop sitting on the dining table. So Sherlock was working on something, she thought. She was glad that he wasn't so focussed that he hadn't noticed her struggling with the lock.

"I thought I'd get fit," she called back.

"Why?"

Rose paused so she could catch her breath. Sherlock had stopped at the dining table and was checking the computer screen.

"For a healthy lifestyle," she said, reaching for a glass tumbler and filling it from the tap. "Everyone needs a good balance of healthy nutrition and exercise."

"Why do they?" Sherlock murmured, bending over to click the mouse before straightening up again.

"Do I really need to explain this to you?" Rose took two large sips of water before heading for the dining area. "Everyone knows this whether they live by it or not. How do you keep fit?"

"I keep moving and I eat only when I absolutely need to," he replied, his eyes still on the screen. "I don't know why people need to buy fancy trainers," he said, making a point of glancing down at Rose's shoes, "and buy frozen boxed lunches. All they need to do is move a bit more and eat a whole lot less."

"Move more and eat less," Rose said, laughing lightly. "I think you're onto something there."

Sherlock remained silent as he watched the screen. Feeling curious, Rose came up beside him.

"What are you doing?" she asked, before draining her glass.

"Wedding photos," Sherlock replied. "I'm copying the files from the memory card that the Thames Valley Police sent to Scotland Yard for me. Photos from John's wedding."

"Wow, fantastic. Show me later, yeah?" Rose said, as she made to leave the area. "I just need to have a shower."

"Oh, Rose!" Sherlock called out.

Rose immediately returned. Having a two-sided conversation with Sherlock was a bit of a novelty at the moment.

"They also returned these."

Sherlock was over by the door and had retrieved an item from his coat pocket. His grin was lopsided as he held out a pair of handcuffs to Rose.

"Oh, thank you," she said, returning Sherlock's sly smile.

She made to leave him, but he gently grasped her elbow.

"Wait," he bid her. When Rose turned back to him, Sherlock said, his voice pitched low, "I haven't given you a hello kiss yet."

Rose tilted her head, and Sherlock touched his lips lightly to hers. His kiss was soft and undemanding but it slowly burnt through Rose. When he eased back, her eyes remained closed for a split second longer. And when she opened them again, she found that he was watching her, with a faint smile playing on his lips.

"I'm having a shower," Rose murmured regretfully.

"Fine. Don't be long."

Sherlock strode away from her, leaving the air frigid and empty in his wake. Rose mentally roused herself and drifted toward the bathroom, depositing the pair of handcuffs back into her kitchen drawer on the way. She needed to remind herself of Sherlock's ability to change direction as suddenly as the wind.

When she finished her shower and returned to the living area wearing her tank top and pyjama bottoms, she found Sherlock on her sofa, his legs stretched out on the coffee table with her computer perched on his lap.

"I've got soup if you're hungry?" she called to him on her way to the kitchen.

When Sherlock didn't reply, Rose exhaled deeply. Was it going to be another one of those nights where her boyfriend didn't acknowledge her existence?

She had just placed a container of potato and leek soup, courtesy of Tonya Small, into the microwave when Sherlock called out, "Do you want to see the wedding photos? They're uploaded now."

"Sure," she called back, swiftly pressing the desired number of minutes on the oven.

She settled comfortably next to Sherlock, leaning into him and tilting her head so that it rested on his shoulder. He didn't seem to mind, and Rose was grateful for his warmth, both physical and emotional.

Sherlock clicked through the photos at a regular interval, pausing now and again to say something random yet interesting about one or more of the subjects in the photos. Comments such as, "That's Archie. He's got a good imagination for solving crimes. I hope he doesn't lose it as he gets older," and "Mr Chatterjee—Mrs Hudson's current boyfriend. I always thought she had the raw end of the deal, what with the wives he's got squirreled away all over England. But look at those lines etched on the corners of his eyes and mouth. You only see those kind of long-suffering markers on the face of one who's regularly exposed to a constant stream of witless babble."

Rose chuckled lightly at Sherlock's words.

"I like your landlady," she said. "When we had morning tea that time, she told me all about her life in Florida. Did you know she used to be an exotic dancer?"

"Mmm."

"Apparently someone's uploaded some old footage to YouTube."

"Have they," Sherlock replied disinterestedly. "Now these are the bridesmaids," he said unnecessarily, on clicking through to the next set of photos showing three women dressed in the exact same shade of lilac standing outside the church holding small bouquets. "I'll email them a link, as well as Mary, giving them online access to all of the wedding photos. It's a way of re-establishing contact with Janine. My way in."

Rose silently ruminated on Sherlock's plan. Her insides churned uncomfortably for reasons she couldn't immediately determine. Sherlock continued clicking through his slide show, with Rose redirecting her focus to the good looking best man.

"Aw," she remarked at one photo, where Sherlock appeared particularly dashing in his grey morning suit and waistcoat with his buttonhole flower still fresh and upright. Two creases featured prominently between his brows as he directed an unimpressed gaze at the photographer. Rose squeezed his arm affectionately, and said, "Would it have killed you to smile once in a while."

"I don't smile, Rose."

Rose sat up and turned to look at him, just making out the beginnings of a smile on Sherlock's lips that threatened to betray his assertion.

Rose leant forward and brushed his lips with hers.

"Liar," she whispered.

Sherlock slipped his arms around Rose and held her in place.

"That's our little secret," he murmured, his eyes locking with hers and his mouth just a breath away.

When their lips met again and both immediately parted in response, Rose could taste Sherlock's desire, and it sent a delicious shockwave through her system. His warm mouth, supple lips and clever tongue stirred an urgent need within her. Her kiss became more demanding and she shifted restlessly within his embrace. Finally Rose used every ounce of willpower to draw away.

"Has it been a week yet?" she asked, breathlessly, of Sherlock's self-imposed week-long celibacy.

"It was more of a general mood than a strict seven day abstinence," he replied, his mouth beginning to roam across her face. "I'm sure you can read my thoughts on the matter now."

Rose eased away from Sherlock and fixed him with a meaningful look. She reached for her computer, snapped the lid shut, and removed it from Sherlock's lap. Having placed it onto the coffee table by his legs, she stood and held out a hand to the detective. He wasted no time getting to his feet, his own eyes darkened with passion.

Rose barely stifled a yelp in surprise as Sherlock suddenly yanked her toward him. He closed his mouth over hers, staggering her with the power of his kiss. His hands began to roam, fingertips skimming underneath her tank top, before he grasped the bottom of it. He left off kissing her long enough to pull her top over her head, dropping it onto the sofa behind him.

Rose grabbed Sherlock's hand before they could lock lips again. She didn't want to waste any more time standing in the living room. But as they passed the dining table, Sherlock suddenly pulled Rose to a stop, shoved his thumbs inside her pyjama bottom waistband, and pushed them downwards. He leant her against the tabletop, pulling her pyjamas and underwear off her in one fluid movement, and sending papers flying.

As his mouth feasted on hers again, Rose attempted to unbutton Sherlock's shirt. Their liaison felt a tad unbalanced. She was completely naked, and Sherlock still wore his shirt and trousers. But she had barely reached the last button before Sherlock had unzipped his trousers and released himself. Her breath was forced out of her lungs as Sherlock lifted her to the table, pushed her backwards and plunged inside her with one hard thrust.

One hand sought his hair and Rose fisted his curls as her own greed forced her to pull him in deeper. It was fast, yet erotic, and she arched against the sharp edge of Sherlock's passion. His mouth covered her breasts, his tongue teased her nipples and she shuddered and moaned in pleasure.

Rose's pulse danced madly, and she had the feeling Sherlock had been influenced by their many games of Cluedo and the uninhibited sex they'd indulged in when they were both stoned. Would the bed no longer be enough for him?

When the pressure became too much, Rose raked her hands down Sherlock's back. His head dropped to the crook of her neck and he emitted a half gasp, half moan. The sound of his unrestrained pleasure thrilled her, and the urgency built unbearably inside her. They matched pace and rhythm until their bodies erupted in a tumultuous release.

Rose clung to Sherlock, the pair of them breathing in ragged, shallow bursts. When Sherlock slipped out of her, Rose dropped her hand, with it landing on something cold and hard. She curled her fingers around it as Sherlock straightened up. His eyes widened in alarm at the object in her grasp.

"What are you doing with the banana?"

"Um..." Rose said, the yellow fruit coming into focus. "Nothing." She quickly dropped it as Sherlock stepped back from the table. He eyed her suspiciously before pulling up his boxer trunks, which had still remained around his hips during sex. Rose slid from the table. She chuckled at the thought of what had just happened, and stepped past Sherlock. She couldn't resist a backhanded slap to his rump before he could step out of his trousers as they lay in a tangle around his feet.

"You didn't even get undressed," she laughed, walking away from him.

Sherlock tutted and stooped to retrieve his trousers as Rose gathered up her pyjama bottoms and retreated toward the sofa for her tank top.

"I'm... ah..." Sherlock stammered, and Rose regarded him in interest as she dressed by the coffee table. Sherlock shook his head a little and drifted away, dressed in just a gaping shirt and trunks, having given up on explaining his intentions. Rose assumed he had meant to say that he was going to have a shower.

Rose chuckled to herself again. She found it amusing that Sherlock still felt awkward and embarrassed about letting his deeper physical desires out. Even after everything they'd been through, she found this quirk of his to be a little bit charming.

Now what was she doing? she wondered, looking over toward the kitchen. _Oh yes._

_Soup._

* * *

Sherlock finished up in the shower and left for the bedroom to change into his pyjamas and dressing gown. Rose had stuck her head into the bathroom to ask if he wanted soup for dinner and he had swiftly agreed. It wasn't as if saying, "No, thank you," was going to bring up the subject of what had just happened between them on the dining table. Being agreeable didn't take away the fact that he was as primitive and base as any ordinary man.

* * *

Rose was just about to close her textbook when Sherlock said, "No, keep reading. I have to send a few emails anyway."

He took the seat across from her, and Rose saw his eyes dart toward the sidetable in the living area on which she had neatly stacked up all of the CAM Global News documents, with the banana placed on top.

"I wasn't going to use the banana," she said, as Sherlock lifted his spoon to his bowl. "It was just there."

"I know," Sherlock hastily replied. He took a mouthful of soup, swallowed, then asked, "What are you reading?"

Rose chose to ignore the fact that Sherlock had swiftly changed the subject. She closed the cover of her book, leaving her hand inside as a bookmark. "Forensic psychology," she said, showing him the cover.

Sherlock took another spoonful of soup, raising his eyebrows in appreciation and nodding toward the textbook.

"We may end up working together one day," he said, a spark of amusement in his eyes.

Rose returned Sherlock's smile. "I don't know," she said, shrugging. "I may end up working in the prison service, assessing offenders and developing rehabilitation programmes. And there's a whole lot more besides. There's very little work in the police service, and certainly not in providing offender profiles."

"Most of the profiling is conducted by idiotic police officers anyway."

"That's a bit harsh, Sherlock."

"Harsh? You try working with them."

They continued eating in a comfortable silence, with Rose studying her textbook, and Sherlock tapping out an email.

"There," he said finally. "I've sent Mary and the bridesmaids the link to the wedding album."

"Great," Rose replied. "So have you spoken to John and Mary since their honeymoon? Do you know how it went?"

Sherlock shrugged non-committedly and appeared to find something of far greater interest on his phone.

"Have you seen John at all?" Rose asked, gently pushing the conversation topic along.

Sherlock drew in a deep breath that he then exhaled noisily.

"No. And I don't expect to."

His eyes returned to his phone screen and Rose knew not to push him further. Eventually she piled up their bowls and spoons and took them into the kitchen.

As she began washing them, Sherlock called out, "Shouldn't you be going to the pub sometime soon?"

Rose looked over to Sherlock as he entered the kitchen. She didn't know what Sherlock was talking about.

"What?"

"To meet one of the employees. Have you chosen one?"

Rose sighed deeply. She thought Sherlock had forgotten about the manic idea he'd had at three o'clock in the morning.

"Do I still have to?" she asked, shaking the suds from her hands over the sink, then grabbing a dish towel. "You have Janine to contact now."

"We still need to obtain a security pass," Sherlock replied, before getting distracted by his phone chiming with a message. He frowned, then muttered, "And they can't stand me."

"Who?"

"The other two bridesmaids. They've just replied with a quick, 'Thanks.' But look at Janine's reply."

Sherlock handed his phone to Rose. She read the email to herself.

_The mysterious Mr Holmes! Thanks for the photos. It looks like you were already suspicious about the photographer, the way you're looking at him. Did you ever get your handcuffs back? You know they come in pairs don't you?_

Rose's gut twisted, and she gave the phone back to Sherlock.

"At least she's interested enough to ask about the case," Sherlock said.

"Barely," Rose muttered under her breath. She turned off the kitchen light as Sherlock strode over to the other side of the room to do the same with the living room lights.

"You know she's flirting with you," Rose said as they both headed toward the bedroom.

"Nonsense."

Sherlock shed his dressing gown as Rose turned on her bedside lamp.

"She's asking you about the handcuffs," Rose said, slipping in between the bedcovers. "Why would she want to draw attention to the fact that you need a pair of them?"

"She's being funny," Sherlock said, sliding in beside Rose and turning on his lamp. "It's a _joke_ , Rose."

Rose tutted when she realised she'd forgotten her textbook. She left the bed again, and made for the door.

"Oh, can you bring me your laptop since you're going out there?" Sherlock asked.

Rose silently brooded as she retrieved both items. She didn't like the sound of this woman, Mary's maid of honour, if she remembered correctly, and Charles Augustus Magnussen's personal assistant. How could anyone work for that sleaze? What kind of woman did that make Janine, Rose wondered.

Back in the bedroom, she handed Sherlock her computer then joined him in bed once more. She opened up her textbook and began to study again. When Sherlock started hammering the keys beside her, Rose looked over.

"What are you doing?" she asked.

"Replying to Janine," he said, continuing to tap away. "I need to continue this banter with her and somehow get around to asking her out for coffee. Where did you say you purchased those handcuffs from?"

Rose's heart stuttered. She'd bought the handcuffs in a sex shop, so for that reason, she didn't respond immediately. She didn't want Sherlock to give Janine Hawkins the impression that he'd been shopping in an adult entertainment store.

"Do you really have to do all this just to get a security pass?" she asked him, finally ignoring the question about the handcuffs.

Sherlock stopped typing.

"It's not just access, Rose. Anyway, that's your little job. You need to starting frequenting the pubs that one of the security officers goes to."

"Not on a Wednesday night I'm not," she said darkly. But would she go at all?

Continuing unabated, Sherlock said, "And I need to establish a close enough relationship with Janine so I can find out everything there is to know about Magnussen—his schedule, his offices and residences all over Europe, likes, dislikes, favourite eating places."

 _Close enough relationship,_ Rose thought. What exactly did that mean? She looked down at her page once more, but her eyes couldn't focus on the text. The section titled, _Assessing Competency to Stand Trial_ went unread.

Finding out all about Charles Augustus Magnussen by flirting with his PA was going to cost way more than one cup of coffee, Rose thought.


	49. Let's Have Dinner

**Chapter 49 –** **Let's Have Dinner**

"And so I told the man," Janine said after she'd taken another sip of her drink, "that if he didn't get another twenty desserts into the conference room by the time the mains were finished…"

Sherlock tuned out, but he was able to keep his eyes bright and focussed on the PA for the duration of her anecdote about a business luncheon she had to organise the day before. Sherlock assumed the role of an attentive listener. He even cued his laughter to match hers.

He'd arranged to meet Janine Hawkins for a drink after she had finished work. She had advised Sherlock that she was waiting on a text from her boss and may be called away at any moment. Sherlock remarked that he faced the same problem with the potential for new cases, so it wasn't an issue.

He'd met with Tonya Small again that morning, thanks to Rose. He had tried to engage Rose in conversation about his impending drinks with Magnussen's PA, but she had brushed him off, saying she was late for work. He could tell that she was a bit apprehensive about his meeting.

"Date," Rose had said, correcting him as she drew on her coat.

"It's not a date. Why are you insisting it's a date?"

"Do you even know what a date is?"

Rose had remained pre-occupied with checking the contents of her handbag as Sherlock continued to shuffle papers relating to the media giant's corporation. Then she had almost left without instigating their goodbye ritual.

"Rose," he said, as the deadbolts snapped aside.

"What?"

Sherlock left the table and crossed the floor to the doorway.

"Goodbye?" he said.

She sighed heavily, as if this were an inconvenience. She silently drew Sherlock in for a hug, and they remained that way while it seemed that Rose didn't know what to say next. Eventually Sherlock himself asked, "Do you love me?"

Rose immediately drew back. Her brow was furrowed when she replied, "Of course I do."

These words were little comfort to Sherlock, with the way she had spoken them.

"Do you love me?" Rose asked Sherlock, as if the question were a challenge and one he would have to think about.

"Yes," he replied instantly. And he studied her eyes, wondering what was going on behind them. She was obviously concerned, but about what?

"You know I'm worried about this, don't you?" she said, as if answering his unspoken question.

"Yes. Worried over nothing."

"So that's exactly why I'm worried. Because you don't think there's anything to worry about. After everything you've told me about her—"

"She's very flirtatious and would like to get me into bed."

"Exactly."

"But she won't succeed."

"Sherlock," Rose said, sighing deeply. She withdrew from his embrace. "You've never dated before. You're very inexperienced when it comes to women. You were a virgin when I met you—"

"Virgin, yes. Idiot, no."

Sherlock had always known when he was being flirted _at._ Hadn't he? Irene Adler may have used obscure phrases such as _Let's have dinner,_ but he still knew her angle. And he had always been well aware of Molly Hooper's feelings for him and had used that to his advantage on many occasions. Probably too many, in hindsight.

Did Rose think he would end up naked and underneath Janine Hawkins without any realisation as to how he got there?

"Could you at least talk to Tonya about Janine?" Rose asked.

"Why would I talk to Tonya? Her idea of dating requires an oven and a carving knife. Plus a willing donor."

"Sherlock."

"Okay. _Fine._ "

Morning tea with the Clarence House Cannibal didn't elicit anything Sherlock didn't already know, except for the information Ms Small volunteered about herself. Sherlock had finished describing the woman that comprised Janine Hawkins over a cup of tea as Tonya bustled about her kitchen.

"I know the type, darling," Tonya remarked. "In fact, just under twenty years ago I knew such a person intimately." And when Sherlock raised his eyebrows out of obligatory interest, Tonya added, "Me. I was exactly like that, so I know how you can manipulate her."

"You were able to be manipulated?" Sherlock asked disbelievingly, and leaning back into his chair.

"Yes. I was young and foolish and oversexed. He was clever, charming and a compulsive liar." Tonya bent over and whispered into Sherlock's ear. "And you fit the mold perfectly."

Sherlock initially rolled his eyes, but Tonya preceded to give him advice as to how to behave around Janine. It wasn't anything he hadn't already planned on doing. Janine was hardly young and foolish. Oversexed, yes. Mary's maid of honour was already attracted to him. He just had to reveal small chinks in his armour. Tonya's suggestions went along the same lines.

Janine had been only too keen to have drinks with Sherlock after their semi-flirtatious email exchange regarding handcuffs, pairs of them. During the first few minutes of the _not-a-date,_ while Janine was describing her working week, she hadn't even said anything flirtatious. That was, until Sherlock's phone chimed with a message. Before he could help himself or even contemplate whether or not it was discourteous, he picked up his phone and glanced at the message. Janine stopped talking while Sherlock's attention was redirected elsewhere.

It was a message from Rose.

_Having drinks after closing the shop with Mel and Sunil. Back later for dinner. Will you be at my place by then?_

Sherlock swiftly tapped out a reply.

_Still having drinks with Janine and who knows where that will lead? —SH_

The second he hit _Send_ , Sherlock realised how his message could be read. And of course he hadn't meant anything seedy. He was hoping he'd get Janine talking about her work, with the best case scenario ending with her giving him a tour of Magnussen's office after hours. However that seemed very unlikely.

"A case?" Janine asked, as Sherlock attempted to chase the first message with a suitable addendum.

"Mmm?" he asked, without looking up.

"Do you have a case?"

Sherlock glanced up at Janine. She made a point of eyeing the device in his hand.

"Oh..." he said, his mind still preoccupied with fixing the mistake in his message.

_And I don't mean anything sexual by that last message. —SH_

"Um..." he said again in an effort to recall what it was Janine had asked him. "Oh. No. Not a case."

"Girlfriend, then?" Janine probed, quirking an eyebrow. The faint smile on her lips told Sherlock that she wouldn't believe him even if he answered in the affirmative.

Janine was fairly intelligent, Sherlock had concluded. She would never fall for a complete personality overhaul, therefore he had to remain in character and just reveal vulnerabilities and tiny improvements every time they met. But he wouldn't appear too cold; there had to be a reason in Janine's mind for Sherlock Holmes to want her company.

He leant forward, with his elbows resting on the table. Closing the gap between them would suggest a certain level of intimacy.

"If there's one thing you should know about me then it's this: I consider myself married to my work. John Watson can attest to that."

"A married man, hey?" she chided. "Ever thought of getting yourself a mistress?"

 _And here we are_ , Sherlock thought. _Standing at the edge of the precipice._

"If by mistress, you're using the term figuratively and you actually mean me getting another job on the side, then no."

"No, actually," she replied, mirroring Sherlock's pose by also leaning forward, thus revealing a little more of her cleavage. "By mistress I'm referring to the warm-blooded type."

The smile again. Sweet, yet her bedroom is only a block away.

A scathing remark was on the tip of Sherlock's tongue. He quickly dismissed it for something a little less potent. He made sure one corner of his mouth suggested the beginnings of a smile before he replied.

"You're misinterpreting my request to spend an afternoon at the pub with you, contemplating the whereabouts of the newly-wedded Watsons, for wanting to jump into your bed."

Her smile broadened. Clearly she found his so-called innocence a little bit charming.

"Well, not all at once," she said demurely. "Baby steps, Mr Holmes."

Sherlock leant back in his chair, as if he were contemplating such a suggestion. He decided to change the subject, so it would appear as if he hadn't dismissed the invitation outright.

"Mr Holmes?" he repeated, deepening his voice a little. "Surely by now you can call me Sherlock."

Janine shrugged unapologetically. "Sherlock sounds far too formal."

Sherlock emitted a weak laugh, as if he were a bit embarrassed to volunteer this next snippet of information.

"And _Mr Holmes_ isn't too formal? It sounds like you're addressing my brother."

Janine's eyes sparkled and widened a little. "You have a brother?"

"Down girl."

They exchanged warm smiles. Flirting was child's play _._ And he was in complete control. What was Rose worried about, for God's sake.

"Well, I can't call you Sherlock," Janine said, reaching for her drink. "I'll have to shorten it to _Sherl._ "

Sherlock's insides roiled in horror. How was he going to endure such nonsense? As Janine sipped her drink, he made a point of rolling his eyes in an exaggerated show of distaste. And that would be all the protesting he would do about the nickname. It would bind them just that little bit closer.

"Ooh, that's me, sorry," Janine said suddenly when her phone chimed from the confines of the handbag she had perched on a seat between them. "Yeah, my boss," she added upon checking the screen.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes just a little, as if he could focus all his deductive powers on the device Janine now held in her hand as she read the text from Charles Augustus Magnussen.

"So I'd better be off," she said, rising from her chair. "Thanks so much for the drink."

Sherlock stood up as well. He hadn't failed to notice that Janine's deportment had become a little stiffer, obviously tensing up at the prospect of facing her boss.

"Perhaps we could continue our conversation another time," Sherlock said, smiling pleasantly.

"That would be nice," Janine replied. She dropped her phone into her bag, and hauled the designer satchel from the chair. "Perhaps dinner sometime?"

"Tonight?" Sherlock said. Overly keen, he thought. A sprinkle of hope in his voice. A bit of desperation from the otherwise cold, confident detective needed to come out now and again.

Thankfully, Sherlock's query brought a smile to Janine's face.

"We could do. If you put those detective skills to work and find out where my office is."

"Well you are being overly mysterious about your occupation," he said, a faint smiling gracing his lips. "Quite clearly you're a personal assistant of some description, for an executive, a male most likely—balance of probability; he works you too hard and leaves you with little time for a personal life hence your desperation to find a bed mate during any down time you can get."

Janine chuckled lightly, a little nervously, Sherlock thought, but he continued on anyway.

"You arrive before everyone else and you're the last to leave. Your hours are unpredictable and you're required to travel at the drop of a hat. You must be the centre of all knowledge in your workplace, not just for your boss—you're phone hasn't stopped beeping with messages since you sat down, but you've been ignoring all but the last, which sounded different. Your boss has a personalised text alert noise, then. Everyone else can wait. Your handbag is over-sized. It contains not one but two diaries. So you manage a diary for somebody else. Old-fashioned. Doesn't trust an electronic schedule. Therefore a man over the age of fifty. The length and shape of your nails are wildly inappropriate for manual work, confirming you're an office worker. Your designer suit, made for business but low cut enough that suggests you need to charm people, means you're an executive assistant in a media corporation. Am I right?"

Sherlock knew that he would've deduced Janine's occupation eventually had he not already known her. The suit and the nails weren't specific to media at all, but he thought that particular deduction would be a nice touch. He was still out to impress her after all.

There was a slight pause before Janine broke into a laugh.

"Oh my God," she exclaimed, then she reached out and lightly touched Sherlock's arm. "Can I take you home?"

"You know my thoughts on that already."

Janine's smile in response was one of affection, Sherlock thought. He had her; that bit was easy. The next step was harder: getting her to trust him enough to reveal confidentialities about her workplace.

"So, dinner?" he asked. He raised his eyebrows, hoping to prompt Janine to elaborate on her suggestion because he had derailed her train of thought with his brilliant deduction.

"Oh, yes."

Janine swapped her bag into her other hand, which Sherlock took as a signal that she was getting anxious about having to leave. He gestured toward the door, and they began to make their way to the entrance as Janine continued talking.

"So, there's a restaurant around the corner from my building. I usually order food to take home, but it's a nice enough place to dine in. I'll be there in…" Janine paused to glance at her watch. "…an hour and a half."

They both stopped outside the pub and Janine distractedly looked up and down the street for a cab.

"If you find my work," she continued, "and can meet me there, we'll have dinner together. Otherwise, I'll order food, take it home and ring a couple of girlfriends to join me. Then of course us girls will head out on the town. It is Friday night after all, and I'm a single girl who doesn't have enough down time in order to find a man to shag. So that's my plans, unless I get a better offer?"

It never ends, Sherlock thought, his mind scrambling for a suitable retort. This game of coquetry would be well served with a quick return volley of Consulting Detective insults. But no. He had to play the game. Best stay in character then.

Sherlock summoned a good deal of embarrassed flustering. A stammer. A step backwards. Subconsciously wanting to escape. Good.

"Ah… I won't do anything about your need to shag, but I'm happy to buy you dinner at least."

This seemed to appease the sexual beast within. Janine's smile had remained on her face. They stepped toward the kerb where Sherlock raised an arm for the next cab.

"I guess I could forgo the bedroom romp for a decent meal," Janine said. "This time." The taxi pulled up at the kerb and Janine approached the rear door. Turning to Sherlock, she said, "If you can find me, I'll see you at eight o'clock. You'll have to give me a head start, so no cheating."

"I never cheat."

Janine narrowed the gap between them.

"Never say never," she whispered, "Sherlock Holmes." Then she gave him a quick peck on the cheek, and turned back to the cab.

Sherlock opened the door for her and as Janine climbed in, he exhaled deeply. He hadn't realised he'd been holding his breath as well as his tongue. Janine glanced up at him and gave him another knowing, hint of a smile. Sherlock gave her a lopsided one in return before closing the door on her.

As the taxi pulled away from the kerb, Sherlock slowly began walking along the street in the opposite direction. He had an hour and half to spare. It wasn't as if he needed the time to stalk Janine to her workplace; he knew exactly where the main offices of CAM Global News were located.

With a stagger in his heart, he realised he hadn't received a message back from Rose. So, to Leinster Gardens then. And he hoped he wouldn't have a lot of explaining to do.

* * *

As he walked through the still air of Rose's flat, Sherlock knew she wasn't there. Probably still at the pub with her workmates. Should he ring her?

_I'm here. You're not._

No. He would then have to explain that he wouldn't be there for long because he had a dinner _not-a-date_ with Janine in just under an hour.

Best leave quietly, then.

Sherlock left the residence via his usual circuitous route, lest he was followed. It added a considerable amount of time both getting to and leaving Rose's flat, but he knew such precautions were worth it. Once he reached Bayswater Road, Sherlock hailed a cab and bid the driver to take him a block from the CAM Global News headquarters, located close to London Bridge in Southwark.

It took him less than fifteen minutes to scout the area in search of Janine's elusive 'restaurant'. The only one that came close to allowing the purchase of takeaway food was the _Pret a Manger,_ but surely she didn't mean they could dine in there.

Sherlock eyed the premises, in great distaste, from his vantage point on the other side of the street. While he was one for _occasionally_ buying fish and chips from the shop on the Marylebone Road (because he received extra portions) or ordering Chinese takeaway with Rose (and in a previous life, with John Watson), he would never _choose_ to eat in a place such as this, despite the fact that _Pret a Manger_ restaurants seemed to be the modern equivalent of a milestone, marking the streets of the London at regular intervals, from here to Kensington and Chelsea and beyond. He tried to suppress the memories of the places he'd been forced to scavenge for food during his travels in Europe. He might lose his appetite altogether, such that it was.

With twitching fingers and a lightly buzzing head, Sherlock fought the urge to find the nearest tobacconist. Probably not a good idea to show up to their _not-a-date_ reeking of cigarette smoke. Usually he wouldn't care though.

Sherlock was about to continue along the street, deciding to wait outside the CAM Global News building instead of this so-called restaurant, when he spied Janine rounding the corner. Her head was bowed slightly as she strode purposefully toward the doors. She paused, and Sherlock could see that she was talking on her mobile phone. Sherlock made it to the kerb just as Janine dropped her phone into her bag and entered the restaurant.

"I don't suppose you like Indian?" he asked Janine, dropping his voice as he stood behind her.

She turned to face him, already smiling.

"Do you know a good place?"

* * *

"Soups, mainly," Janine confessed to Sherlock once they were seated in the small, dark, basement restaurant a couple of blocks away from where they'd started. "Stops me getting some unhealthy convenience food that's just around the corner," she added, continuing to explain to the detective why she frequented the _Pret a Manger_ for dinner. "And they give me a free second coffee, which is handy. Each morning I buy one for myself, and the extra one goes to my boss. He likes it. He thinks it's French."

She smiled at the joke on her boss while Sherlock furrowed his brow. Did Charles Augustus Magnussen enjoy drinking mediocre coffee? Now here was an opening, an opportunity to bring the conversation around.

"So," Sherlock said, leaning forward across the menu he had abandoned perusing, "Do you work for the man at the top, or one of his executive underlings?"

Janine emitted a half smile before taking a sip of her white wine.

"What makes you think the person at the top is a man?"

Sherlock quickly navigated through his phone then turned the screen around to Janine.

"Because the company website says so."

Janine chuckled lightly. "Okay," she said, smiling sheepishly as Sherlock took back his phone. "So you did follow me."

"Of course I did. It wasn't too difficult. Charles Augustus Magnussen, the _CAM_ in CAM Global News. Are you his PA?"

"Now you're just guessing."

"I never guess."

Janine had been leaning onto the table, subconsciously mirroring Sherlock. Now she folded one hand over the other and gave Sherlock a weak smile.

 _A defensive posture,_ thought Sherlock. He ought to back off a little.

The detective casually leant back into his chair, as if pondering something. He leant forward again, furrowed his brow, and said, "I have a confession to make."

"Oh, really?"

Janine lifted her wine glass to her lips once more and took a sip, her eyebrows raised in expectation.

"I was quite interested to find out that you work for a newspaper owner. This particular newspaper owner. You see, a potential client approached me about a case that relates to your boss. Now is this a coincidence?"

Janine fiddled with her glass, one corner of her mouth desperately trying to keep her rapidly dying smile alive.

"My brother doesn't believe in coincidences," Sherlock said airily before Janine sought to fill the silence with a pitiful remark. Sherlock accompanied his statement with a barely stifled eyeroll, and casually leant back into his chair again. "He believes the universe conspires with fate to bring us intellectually satisfying puzzles to solve." Sherlock sighed deeply, as if lamenting his lot in life. "He really is a rubbish big brother."

A tiny laugh escaped Janine, and Sherlock was relieved to find her warm smile genuine again.

He shrugged nonchalantly and said, "I probably won't take on this case." With a flippant wave of his hand he added, "It sounds dull in the extreme, but Janine..." He leant forward onto his elbows and lowered his voice to a confidential whisper. "Tell me. Are you working for a blackmailer?"

Janine gaped a little, caught by surprise no doubt.

"Sherl," she said, successfully recomposing herself and plastering a playful smile onto her face. "I can't talk about my boss. Everything about my work is confidential."

"Pity. He sounds far more interesting than the Member of Parliament whose only redeeming feature is that she has a husband who likes to have sex with women other than herself. Do you want to eat?"

They both perused their menus in silence, with Sherlock stealing a quick glance at Janine. She was smiling faintly. Satisfied that he'd seemingly laid his cards on the table with regard to his knowledge about the identify of her employer and partially revealing a potential client who had a connection to said employer, Sherlock was keen to move onto the second phase in his bid to gain Ms Hawkins' confidence.

Sherlock tightened his throat so that emotion would creep into his voice. He coughed lightly, laid down the menu, picked it up again, flipped to the back cover, then placed it onto the table once more.

"Janine," he said, then he shifted in his chair, uneasily he hoped. He gazed fixedly at the stem of Janine's wine glass when she raised her eyes from her own menu. "You... didn't quite answer my question earlier, at the pub."

"Sorry?"

"When we first arrived." He 'braved' a glance at Janine, and then let his eyes roam the restaurant.

"When we first arrived?"

"At the pub. Yes."

Janine narrowed her eyes in thought as Sherlock redirected his attention to her.

"Oh," she said, "You were asking if I'd seen John and Mary. And I said no, I hadn't."

"You said no, but you'd had a crap week at work. Then you preceded to tell me all about your working week. Not that I..." He tried to fix his companion with a reassuring smile. "Not that I didn't want to hear that, of course. But..."

Janine still looked stumped.

"What?"

"So you haven't... seen or heard from Mary?"

"No. I haven't. Why?"

Sherlock fidgeted with his napkin and rearranged his feet underneath the table.

"I haven't heard from John either," he said in a voice barely above a whisper.

"What?" Janine chuckled lightly, and then she rearranged her expression when Sherlock knitted his brows together. "They just got married," she hastily added. "And... you know... newly weds..." She attempted to smile again, but Sherlock wasn't having any of it.

 _Good,_ he thought. _She's scrambling to make excuses on behalf of John and Mary to make me feel better. She wants to cheer me up._

Sherlock kept his self-satisfied thoughts from marring his faux-sombre expression.

"I don't understand," he said. "Have I done something wrong? Is John angry with me for some reason?"

He hoped his eyes were sufficiently wide, his eyebrows making an arc of confusion.

 _Say the words,_ he thought, staring fixedly at Janine. Her own eyes grew larger, mirroring his and she reached for his hand.

Giving it a squeeze she said, "Oh, _Sherl_."

Bingo.

He was hoping for _Oh, Sherlock_ , but... this was close enough.

Sherlock set his jaw, a coldness creeping into his visage. He pulled his hand away and quickly raised his menu.

"Do you like naan bread?" he gushed. "I'm thinking of getting naan bread and a selection of dips."

From the other side of his menu, he heard Janine emit a tiny sigh. He had her. Phase two complete.

Sherlock allowed one corner of his mouth to stretch into a miniscule smile, hidden by his raised menu.

_The stage is set, the curtain rises, we are ready to begin._


	50. Going Into Battle--Need the Right Armour

**Chapter 50 - Going into Battle... I Need the Right Armour**

Sherlock had successfully dismissed Rose from his mind during dinner with Janine, but now that he was back in Leinster Gardens, his chest ached at the thought of his faux-flirtation with Magnussen's PA. Rose's absence from her flat produced an extra worry that weighed heavily on his mind. It was almost 10pm. Where was she?

Her last message to him, earlier in the evening, told him that she would be home for dinner after having drinks with her co-workers. But then he had sent that stupid message about not knowing how his evening with Janine would pan out. Nothing sexual there, but he realised he had implied such a thing in his vague response. _Idiot!_

Rose hadn't texted him again.

Unfamiliar feelings took up residence in Sherlock's mind and heart. _Concern? Guilt?_ Was he worried about what Rose was up to? He'd never been overly concerned before. Sherlock and Rose usually co-existed around one another, ending up at the same place (Rose's flat) at the same time on most occasions. If Rose wasn't at home when he arrived, even if it was long past the time she was due home from work, Sherlock had never concerned himself with her whereabouts. She would turn up eventually. And on previous occasions when Rose used to visit Baker Street, some nights she would make herself at home with no sign of Sherlock until the wee hours. It hadn't been an issue for her either.

This arrangement had worked perfectly for them, even though Sherlock knew that most conventional couples didn't operate this way. He could see it in their hurried gait on their way home from work, the frequency of checking their watches when they were out drinking at a pub with their friends, the way they cut off conversations and disengaged themselves when the hour grew late.

But he and Rose weren't a conventional couple. Should they adopt these practices so they could take their relationship to the next level? Was this what _commitment_ entailed? Is this why Mary Watson knew at each moment in time, precisely where her husband was? Was Sherlock an inferior partner because he _didn't_ know where Rose was, and he very rarely communicated his whereabouts throughout the day to her?

Sherlock stood in the middle of Rose's living room, still clad in his long, grey coat, and drew his phone out of his pocket. Should he text her and ask her where she was and when was she coming home?

This gesture of _neediness_ didn't sit right with Sherlock, but he began pacing, phone in hand, mentally debating the merits and disadvantages of this mutual checkpointing. As his thoughts grew more tangled, the distance he paced before he about-faced grew shorter, until he stood once more in the centre of the room and raked an irate hand through his hair.

Finally he exhaled and briefly closed his eyes.

A cup of tea, he thought, slipping his phone back into his pocket. Tea, pyjamas, watch telly on the sofa, then go to bed. And during one of those actions, Rose would materialise. Of this he was sure.

* * *

Sherlock was suddenly awake at the sound of the deadbolts at the front door unlocking. The single beam of light through the curtains told Sherlock all he needed to know. It was morning—about 7:10 am, by his estimation. He immediately sat upright, turned and dropped his feet to the floor.

"Rose?" he called as he hastened out of the bedroom.

"Oh. Hello," she said as Sherlock entered the living area clad only in his grey pyjamas.

Rose stood over by the door, looking worse for wear, slowly removing her jacket. Sherlock's heart stuttered in response to the brief smile she gave him.

"Where..." Sherlock began, his voice strangled by the ropes of guilt he'd twisted about himself for having _dinner with Janine_ last night _._ He cleared his throat and began again. "Where have you been?"

The words sounded odd coming out of his mouth. And though he'd tried to keep his tone light and unaffected, he could detect the quiet desperation in his own voice. He hoped Rose didn't pick up on it.

"Billy's," Rose replied. She walked toward Sherlock, dumping her bag onto an armchair. "I feel like crap," she said, reaching out and briefly rubbing his arm as she passed him.

This small gesture, not like their usual way of greeting, caused a small tear in Sherlock's heart.

"Billy's?" he asked, even though Rose's appearance told him what she'd been up to. "Looks like you've had a massive toking session," he added before thinking to catch himself.

He heard Rose chuckle, but she didn't pause in her stride.

"You're right there," she said. "I need a shower. I don't start work until eleven."

Sherlock followed Rose into the bathroom. She glanced up at him as she began unbuttoning her jeans.

"Why didn't you toke at home?" Sherlock asked, leaning against the doorframe and folding his arms in front of him in what he hoped looked like a relaxed and uncaring manner.

"I ran out, remember?" she answered, her glassy eyes and tiny smile reminding Sherlock of the evening they got stoned together. "And... Billy said a lot of people had been staying on lately, so I couldn't ask him to come here with a fresh supply on a Friday night when people relied on him."

Sherlock wrinkled his nose as the distinctive scent of marijuana residue wafted from Rose's clothes as she dropped each item on the floor. He didn't quite understand what Rose was talking about and why people were relying on Billy.

"So... why didn't you... come home... afterwards?"

"I don't like to take public transport when I'm high." Rose turned her back on Sherlock as she fiddled with the clasps on her bra. "Billy usually let's me stay in his room, where it's a bit more private. He sleeps on one of the sofas downstairs. Can you put the kettle on? I won't be long."

It seemed Sherlock had been dismissed. He silently left the bathroom and heard the door click shut behind him.

His roiling insides reminded him yet again that he had something to feel guilty about. His cheeks burned when he recalled that Janine had kissed him there. Twice. Once when they had parted ways outside the pub, and the second time when they had left the restaurant.

 _I'll see you tomorrow_ , Janine had whispered to him, in close enough proximity that she had to steady herself by lightly touching a hand to his chest before delivering a kiss that lingered longer than necessary. He had rapidly blinked, his discomfort not at all contrived that time.

He'd been kissed on the cheek before, by women, so why the over-reaction?

But, _Tomorrow_. That was today. Sherlock had organised to meet Janine in a Kensington and Chelsea coffee shop that afternoon, so they could pretend they were on a date. Sherlock had lied to Janine, telling her he had to track someone for a case, and if she didn't have anything on, would she like to accompany him so he didn't look suspicious hovering in the area by himself? He would usually take John, he had hastily added, and had then averted his eyes in an effort to appear quietly contemplative over the friend that had seemingly abandoned him.

Janine had already confided in Sherlock over dinner that her boss was returning to the continent for the weekend and she wasn't needed. It was a rare opportunity for her to have the entire weekend free.

Sherlock thought he should latch on to any remark about Magnussen and raise questions about the man.

"And is it a rare opportunity that he doesn't need you when he travels?" Sherlock had asked.

"He's attending personal business," Janine had replied. "I'm just glad to get a free moment."

Sherlock had ventured to probe Janine some more. "Do you... enjoy... your work?"

"Enough to appreciate my down time," Janine had replied vaguely. "How about dessert?"

Sherlock knew not to press her any further. This was a game of chess, and that was her defensive counter-move. The Consulting Detective had a general game strategy. Endear himself to her through anecdotes about previous cases, whether real or fabricated, then let something slip: a _feeling,_ a _hope_ or _disappointment,_ then snap back into his usual guarded manner. And the ratio of _warm Sherlock_ to _cold Sherlock_ would slowly tip in favour of _warm Sherlock._ He concluded that Janine Hawkins required a certain level of intimacy before sharing freely any information about Charles Augustus Magnussen.

Now how long would that take?

Sherlock filled the kettle and turned it on. He retrieved mugs from the overhead cupboard and placed teabags into them while he tried dismiss both his feelings of guilt for his evening out, and a confusing discomfort that came with the knowledge of Rose's: a night getting stoned with Billy _W_ _h_ _atsit_ and _Friends_.

Sherlock didn't realise he'd been staring at the kettle that had long since boiled when he heard Rose leave the bathroom and enter the bedroom. He abandoned his tea making and headed toward her room.

Leaning on the doorframe and crossing his arms to continue in his efforts to appear relaxed, he said, "My evening went according to plan."

"Did it," she responded conversationally with turning around. Rose busied herself donning underwear before wrapping her dressing gown around her.

Sherlock cleared his throat, punctuating the silence before continuing with half-hearted enthusiasm.

"I think she can see the chinks in my armour."

"That's lovely," Rose remarked emotionlessly, and she patted Sherlock's arm once more on her way through. "You have a lot of chinks," she added, then chuckled, as she exited the room.

Sherlock exhaled heavily and was in two minds whether to follow Rose back out or not. He was beginning to feel like a puppy dog, trying to seek attention from an otherwise preoccupied owner. What was she preoccupied with, he wondered. Did she know? Clearly he looked guilty, even a man as skillful as he at masking his emotions. But he was in love. This was a new position for the emotionless android to find himself in. Perhaps it wasn't possible to hide anything from the one you love? And did he even want to?

Obviously he was feeling guilty for allowing Janine to kiss him without rebuffing her, because he aimed to encourage such gestures of affection.

When he heard the sound of a kitchen drawer opening and the tinkling of cutlery, he remembered he had been making tea. Upon returning to the kitchen, he found Rose pouring water into the mugs.

"I'll get that, Rose," he said, amiably.

"I'm fucking standing here doing it," Rose snapped.

Sherlock abruptly stopped, his stomach dropping a quarter of an inch. Clearly she knew _everything._

 _I never cheat_ , he'd said to Janine when she challenged him to find her place of employment.

_Never say never, Sherlock Holmes._

A warm kiss hovered on his cheek. A light press of a hand on his chest.

Why had his head filled with these memories just then? Sherlock didn't want Rose to see him while such thoughts floated through his mind, convinced that she'd see evidence of his guilt in his eyes alone, so he turned and headed back to her bedroom.

* * *

Rose heard the door to her room click shut and she stopped what she was doing and leaned heavily against the kitchen counter, bowing her head. Why had she been short with Sherlock? Why was she pushing him away? She knew she'd been pretty upset last night, over nothing, really. Sherlock's dumb text was not surprising. Of course he'd make a mistake like that and he wouldn't have meant anything by it. Why was she making something out of nothing?

She knew she was tired and irritable. Billy's thin mattress and the lack of adequate cooling at the old college weren't conducive to a good night's sleep. Plus she'd toked with Billy continuously, so her mouth felt like it was full of cotton wool. She thought she'd drop in after spending the evening with her work mates, and have a quick, calming joint with Billy before returning home to have dinner with Sherlock. She thought he'd text her to say his _date_ with Janine had finished. But he hadn't contacted her again and she had stayed at Billy's, not wanting to return to an empty, lonely flat.

But then it had become so late. Billy's friends were _funny,_ she remembered that much. The only transport available was the night bus, and she knew being stoned would make her that much more paranoid about travelling back to Bayswater alone.

Rose sighed and began dunking the teabags into the water. Should she go to Sherlock and apologise?

Her bones felt heavy and she turned around and slumped against the kitchen counter while she waited for the tea to steep. Movement along the corridor roused her from her morose thoughts, and she straightened up and made a bid for the fridge. Sherlock re-entered the kitchen as she retrieved the milk. Rose was startled to see that he was fully dressed, except for his coat which usually hung by the front door.

"I... um..." she began, as Sherlock turned from her, as if to enter the living area.

"What are you doing tonight?" Sherlock called back without looking at her. His voice was flat and unemotional.

Rose felt an uncomfortable pressure building up behind her eyes. She began pouring milk into their teas and swallowed the lump in her throat.

Forcing her response to come out light and pleasant, she replied, "I'll be visiting the red light districts."

Understandably, her answer was met with silence. She assumed Sherlock was digesting her words. He came back into the kitchen and Rose's heart sank at seeing him now wearing his coat.

"Sorry, what?" he said.

Rose turned her back on him and began removing the teabags from the cups as she expanded on her answer.

"The staff from the ASXX thought it would help with counselling if I could see the environment that some of the prostitutes had to work in. My actual counselling work starts next Wednesday night. Maybe tonight they'll take me to visit a brothel or two as well."

"But you already know—"

"But they don't know that I was a fucking whore in my former life. I'm pretending to be a _normal person_. I thought I'd let them read all about my life as a sex worker when it appears in the papers some day. You know—the CAM Global News editions."

"Rose," Sherlock bid her in exasperation.

She turned back to face Sherlock, her expression darkening and her heart beating dully in her chest. "I still don't know what _dating Janine_ has got to do with John Garvie. But still..." she said, waving a teaspoon around flippantly, "you and Tonya are so fucking clever, what would I know."

She turned her back on Sherlock once more and forced back tears. So there it was. She was jealous. It was that simple.

She clenched the teaspoon but she heard nothing from Sherlock until she heard the locks slide back. Storming into the living room, she found Sherlock opening the front door.

" _I'm making you tea!_ " she yelled at him, her sudden rage even surprising herself.

Sherlock merely blinked once, kept a stony face and replied, "I'll have one at Baker Street. I'll see you later."

When he pulled the door shut without waiting for a reply, Rose's muscles tensed and she suddenly hurled the teaspoon at the door where it bounced off the wooden frame ineffectively.

_Fucking bastard!_

* * *

"Well, I don't even think she's home," Janine murmured as both she and Sherlock stood on a dimly-lit street staring up at the windows of a darkened flat in Notting Hill, while their cab idled at the kerb behind them.

"Perhaps she's asleep," Sherlock suggested unconvincingly.

Beyond the glass of the front door, Sherlock could see that the entrance light had been left lit, so there was a strong possibility that Janine's friend hadn't returned home from clubbing yet.

"Look, you go," Janine said to Sherlock as she held out her phone. "I'll just keep trying her number."

"Nonsense. I'm not leaving you in the street."

Janine glanced along the road as if assessing it for safety.

"I suppose you could give me a lift to the club," she said, raising her brows in hope.

Sherlock glanced at his watch. "You'd go clubbing at this hour?"

Janine laughed lightly. "Well, yes. It's still quite early for the party people."

Sherlock stretched one corner of his mouth into a smile. "I'm obviously not a _party person._ "

Janine chuckled again. She'd been doing that all evening—laughing at Sherlock's self-deprecating remarks, and reaching out to squeeze or pat his arm at every opportunity.

"Although," she added, looking thoughtful. "Amber may have hooked up with somebody. She might not come home at all."

"Oh," Sherlock responded, mirroring Janine's concerned expression.

"But if you drop me at the club, perhaps I could hook up, too," Janine suggested, a smile playing on her lips. "So I won't be left homeless tonight."

Sherlock furrowed his brow. Were there no limits to this woman's promiscuity? "You'd... do that?"

"Of course not, silly," she said, playfully poking him in the ribs. "I'm only messin'."

Sherlock contemplated his options. The day had definitely been going his way, in an _infiltrating the enemy_ kind of way. On a personal level, he was in the toilet. _Definitely_ in the toilet in regard to his relationship with his girlfriend. A deep sorrow rippled through him and he quickly dismissed the emotion as he had been doing all day.

Janine had met him for coffee. With a discreet nod of his head, he'd indicated some random person and pretended they were his target. Admittedly, they weren't completely random. Sherlock had quietly deduced that the young woman was waiting for a friend so they could go shopping together. Her shoes, handbag and the frequency of her texting told him that. This meant that Sherlock and Janine caught sight of the woman several times during the course of their 'date' and Sherlock duly made notes on his phone on the woman's movements just to keep up with the ruse.

Afternoon tea had progressed into a lazy walk along the Thames embankment, with Sherlock regaling Janine with stories on bloated corpses that had been discovered underneath the various bridges. Some of the stories had been true, while others were merely wishful thinking on Sherlock's part.

Ah. If only he were part of the criminal classes. The creative ways he could dispose of a body.

It wasn't a coincidence that they had walked within view of the CAM Global News building.

"How's the view from up there?" Sherlock asked casually.

"A lot better than the London Eye," Janine replied. "I'll show you one day. I can't take you up there after hours though."

"Perhaps I'll take you to lunch," Sherlock suggested, gifting Magnussen's PA with a charming smile. "And then you can show me."

Then he immediately changed the subject, as if the suggestion were an insignificant idea in the grand scheme of things. Sherlock had then excused himself from Janine's company, saying he had a meeting with his client to discuss the young woman he'd had under surveillance earlier. Noting Janine's look of disappointment, he made plans to take her to dinner later that evening. But he needed to see Rose first.

He'd waited at her flat in the late afternoon before he realised that she'd be on closing the entertainment store since she'd had a late start. Given that he had to travel a convoluted route in order to leave Leinster Gardens without being seen, he couldn't wait until she arrived home around 6pm. He had to meet Janine for dinner. With a heavy heart, he'd left Rose's flat. He decided to make a concerted effort after dinner with Janine to come back to Rose's.

Over dinner, Janine had told Sherlock that she was in between residences. Her old lease was up, and she considered down-sizing, and perhaps flat-sharing so she didn't have to worry about having a vacant flat for the times she had to travel for work, which was often. While she was still flat hunting, a friend had said she could stay the weekend with her. Janine was supposed to go clubbing with the friend, Amber, but had preferred to spend the evening with the dashing Sherlock Holmes instead.

The evening had become problematic when Janine realised she didn't have a key to get back into Amber's flat, and calls to her friend's phone went through to her messaging service.

"Why don't we go for a late night coffee," Sherlock suggested. "Perhaps your friend will ring back eventually."

"We could do," Janine conceded. "But not in a coffee shop. I'd really like to put my feet up, if you don't mind. So how about coffee at your place?"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. The night was never-ending, and he was getting tired of this banter.

He sighed first, then said, "My definition of coffee involves a kettle of boiling water, coffee grounds, and optional milk and sugar. It doesn't involve the removal of clothing and the connection of sweaty body parts. Are we clear on that?"

As expected, Janine laughed lightly. She hooked her arm through Sherlock's and said, "Understood. And I take the concept of _No_ _meaning_ _No_ very seriously."

"Good," Sherlock replied, and he escorted Janine the short distance to the kerb and held the door to the taxi open for her.

Sherlock's shoulders slumped in defeat before he, too, climbed into the cab.

"Baker Street," he bid the cabbie.

* * *

Janine sighed and threw her phone down onto Sherlock's coffee table.

"Well, I've left three rude messages for her now," she said as Sherlock bent down to retrieve her coffee mug. "She'll probably throw my things out the window."

Janine reached over and rubbed at her feet, having discarded her heels earlier.

"You didn't sound that rude," Sherlock said, before straightening up and turning from the room. He was the _king_ of rudeness, so he'd know.

"I bet she's lying naked in some guy's bed," Janine quipped. Sherlock heard her rise from the sofa, yawning and stretching. "I'm keeping you up," she called after Sherlock. "Why don't you turn in?" Sherlock could hear Janine approaching the kitchen. "I can just crash on your sofa, if that's okay," she added as she leant against the kitchen counter. "If Amber calls, I'll let myself out."

As he rinsed the coffee mugs, Sherlock turned his head toward her.

"Sounds like a good idea," he said, forcing an amiable smile to his face. An idea that would hinder his own plans to go to Leinster Gardens later. Not that he'd need to offer Janine any explanation for leaving his flat in the middle of the night. It would make it easier if he didn't have to constantly fabricate cases though. "But why don't you take the bed?" he counter-offered. "I'll sleep on the sofa." He turned his attention back to his washing up. "Seems like the decent thing to do."

"I don't want to kick you out of your bed."

Sherlock looked up at Janine once more.

"Think of it as a community service. You'll probably give my landlady a heart-attack if she discovers a woman asleep on my sofa."

Janine chuckled.

"Are you sure this isn't a ploy by you to get me into your bed?"

Sherlock placed the clean coffee mugs on the side of the sink and frowned at Janine. Walking toward her, he said, "Why would I need a ploy? You've been trying to get me into bed for the last two days. If I wanted to have sex with you, it would've happened last night. I've told you already: I'm married to my work."

Janine narrowed her eyes at the detective.

"But you're a man," she said. "And all men have needs."

Sherlock gave Janine a lop-sided smile. "And most men have a free hand to use." He winked at her then made a bid for his bedroom. "Just getting a pillow, then you can have the room," he called back.

Sherlock hadn't counted on Janine immediately following him.

"So you don't have sex... ever?" she said, surprising Sherlock both with her presence in his doorway, and her demanding tone.

He was standing by his dresser with the second drawer open, poised to retrieve his pyjamas. He sighed at the nature of her question and the faint expression of amusement on her face. He turned to the drawer and drew out his sleepwear as he replied.

"It's a question of mind over matter." He slid the drawer shut and faced Janine once more. "I keep my mind occupied, and my body rarely craves sexual release. All that matters to me is the work."

Her mouth quirked into a smile. "Seriously?"

Sherlock was almost convincing himself. This was precisely the attitude he'd had before he'd met Rose. Before he'd lost his virginity to a prostitute.

_And then..._

"Yes." He blinked twice.

_And then fell in love with her._

"Well, then," Janine concluded, folding her arms in front of her and leaning on the doorframe. "If you're so harmless, then why can't we share the bed?"

It was Sherlock's turn smile slyly. "Who said anything about harmless? I'm rather partial to a violent, bloody murder."

Janine's grin matched Sherlock's. "I'll take my chances with a murderer."

Sherlock regarded Janine for a split second, in which time his mind had calculated all the likely problems that this scenario could bring. He was still trying to become her confidante. _Is that what this is?_ And helping her out of a small bind seemed an easy way in.

"Fine," he said suddenly, and he stalked toward his bathroom. "But I get the side of the bed nearest the door."

Sherlock locked himself in his ensuite. All the air seemed to leave him as he physically deflated. Would he get to see Rose tonight? She hadn't called or texted him. She'd thrown _something_ at the door as he left her flat this morning. Since when did Rose exhibit violent tendencies?

Well, there _were_ the two occasions she'd slapped him. Once because he'd been absent for two years. And the other because he'd said something derogatory about her mental breakdown during her reflection on being a prostitute.

Perhaps he'd been kind of insensitive at the time.

Was he being insensitive now? How? By keeping her informed on his progress with Janine?

_Ah._

_Yes._

_That could be a problem._

Perhaps he shouldn't tell her anything from now on.

Sherlock quickly showered and donned his pyjamas. When he re-entered the bedroom, he found Janine sitting on the far side of his bed, checking her phone by lamplight.

"Oh," was all he managed to say.

Janine smiled uneasily at him, ran a quick eye down his pyjamas, then asked, "Could I borrow a shirt?"

Sherlock took in the dress Janine had been wearing all day. He cleared his throat and replied, "Sure. Help yourself." He gestured vaguely toward his drawers then said, "Just going to read. Don't wait up."

Sherlock retreated to his living room with a plan in mind. He'd wait until Janine fell asleep, then quickly dress and quietly leave for Leinster Gardens.

Simple.

It wasn't that simple.

Twenty minutes later, while he had been pretending to read, Janine entered the kitchen.

"Just getting a water," she said.

Sherlock looked up from his book and stared at her, his brow furrowed. Janine filled a glass with water from the sink tap, and must've sensed Sherlock's gaze for she turned in his direction.

"I thought," Sherlock began, the creases in his brow remaining as he puzzled over her appearance. "I thought," he said again, "that you meant a t-shirt."

"Oh," Janine said, smiling sheepishly. "Sorry." She touched a hand to the shirt cuff. "I need long sleeves. I get cold. Hope you don't mind."

Sherlock shrugged lightly. "Fine," he said.

"Do you snore?"

"Sorry. What?"

"Snore. Don't worry. I'm a heavy sleeper," she said. "It won't matter if you do." When Sherlock just continued to gaze at her through narrow eyes, she added, "Well, okay. Goodnight, Sherl."

Sherlock unenthusiastically returned the sentiment then dropped his gaze back to his book. He didn't dare look up again until he was sure that Janine had disappeared into the bedroom.

_Sherl._

He sighed and threw a glance toward the passageway that lead to his room. Seeing Janine Hawkins, fresh from the shower and wearing one of his work shirts, with nothing else covering her legs was a bizarre sight indeed. He had a _girlfriend_ and had never seen Rose wearing any of his clothes, except his dressing gown on a couple of occasions.

Sherlock propped an elbow up onto the arm of his chair and rubbed his fingers against his temple. How long should he wait for?

He let another hour pass of pretending to read—he couldn't concentrate on anything—before he finally headed toward his bedroom. He paused on opening the door. Janine rolled over, facing away from him. Sherlock couldn't be sure if she was asleep. To confirm this, he'd have to listen to the rate of her breathing. And to achieve _that_ , he'd need to get closer.

Approximately fourteen months ago, Sherlock found himself in Józsefváros, the 8th district in Budapest, lying low in a housing estate where he could only emerge in the darkness of night to retrieve food and build himself a cache of weapons by stealing from the terrorist cell who had taken residence on the floor above. After three weeks of living like that, he had survived.

So he could survive this.

Sherlock quietly closed his bedroom door and tentatively crossed the floor. He slipped, stealth-like under the cover and lay rigidly along the edge of the bed.

What a strange experience, lying in bed next to a woman who was not Rose. Sherlock stifled a yawn.

_Rose._

_Petite, brunette, apple, pear, coconut. Soft curves, pliant in his arms._

_No, don't do that. Don't think about Rose._

_Rugged river valley... the road to Shigatse... the roof of the word... high in the Himalayas... Mister Holmes, please observe the five precepts during your stay._

_Rose._

_Number one precept: no killing._

_Dull._

_Number two precept: no sexual intercourse._

_Boring._

_Number three precept: no intoxicants._

_Rose._

_Number two precept: no sexual intercouse._

_Make love to me, Sherlock._

_Apple, pear, coconut, Rose._

_Coconut._

Sherlock shuffled closer.

_Number two precept._

_Coconut. Rose._

_No sex._

He reached out. Not feeling the silky smooth of her skin on her arm, due to her sleeved night-dress, his fingers drifted downwards to her thigh.

 _Ah, yes. Coconut-scented soap._ He knew he could smell it. _Lathered to make her skin feel like silk beneath my fingertips._

He shuffled closer still and pressed his burgeoning erection against her as his fingers continued to caress her soft skin. _Rose._ His breath became shallow.

_Coconut._

_Throw that one out,_ Rose had said. _He licked my face._ And Sherlock had pocketed the bar of soap Rose no longer wanted to use and had stored it in his bathroom cabinet.

Sherlock's eyes snapped open. He was instantly awake.


	51. What Goes On in That Funny Old Head

**Chapter 51 - What Goes On in That Funny Old Head**

In a former Soviet light plane aircraft hangar south of Berlin, Sherlock Holmes had knelt behind a canvas barrier, not daring to breathe. He'd already eased back the half a dozen millimetres or so preventing his body from touching the canvas and thereby giving away his position. His foot scraping a misplaced metal object on the ground may have alerted the guards to his presence. He had waited for what seemed an eternity, when in reality it had been a mere seconds. When no action had been taken, no shouted commands, nor stomping of army boots, he had breathed a sigh of relief.

It was these skills that Sherlock Holmes, pyjama-clad, and in his own bedroom, now employed. He moved a quarter of an inch away from Janine's slumbering form, not breathing, lest the coolness of his breath wake her. He had lifted the hand that had previously and sensuously caressed her thigh. Outwardly, he was the epitome of Tibetan Buddhist calm and collectedness. Inwardly, his heart beat erratically and his erection still raged.

Sherlock slowly rolled onto his back, and only now allowed himself to breathe, drawing in welcome oxygen through his nostrils. He listened very carefully to Janine's breathing. He was ninety-nine percent sure she was still asleep. Thank God she was a heavy sleeper, he thought, reflecting on her own admission earlier that evening.

 _Rose_ , he thought, light pangs of guilt stabbing him in the heart. She no longer smelled like her coconut-scented soap. Thanks to Charles Augustus Magnussen licking her face and commenting on the taste of coconut on her skin, she'd never use that soap again. Sherlock had been let down by his entorhinal cortex, the part of his brain that paired the older memory of Rose's soap usage to the scent he had detected on Janine's person. It had neglected the newer memory of Rose telling him to get rid of the soap. _Stupid. Stupid!_

Sherlock waited until his erection had begun to flag, then noiselessly rose and swung his legs from the bed. He quietly retrieved his garments and exited the bedroom. He dressed swiftly in the semi-darkness of his living room by the light filtering in from the street lamp across the road.

He now had a good hour of travel to get to Leinster Gardens undetected, although the darkness of the hour would enable him to take riskier shortcuts. Sherlock imagined he may cross paths with ( _other?_ ) adulterers embarking on their regular walk of shame. On previous sojourns through the sleeping city of London, Sherlock rather hoped to encounter all the English capital had to offer of its seedy underbelly. But now he clung to the shadows, wishing to remain anonymous and not witness the guilt of those whose infidelity was worn on their faces as badges of dishonour—those pathetic _weight loss, hair dye, Botox, affair_ -types.

It was a little after 2am when he finally let himself into Rose's flat. He set about reversing the actions he'd undertaken in Baker Street, first shedding his outer coat, toeing out of his shoes and shrugging his jacket from his arms. He needed to take a shower. Even though he'd barely touched Janine, he felt the need to cleanse both mind and body.

It was a very quick shower, with Sherlock's thoughts firmly on Rose's warm body and the act of curling up around it.

He had just slid open the dresser drawer, one-handed while holding a towel around his hips, when the silence was punctuated by the tell-tale click of a bedside lamp. The bedroom was suddenly illuminated.

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock turned around and gave Rose a weak smile. Her own expression was soft, her eyes rounded with... _what was that thing? Oh. Love. Affection. Forgiveness._

"What have you been up to?" she asked.

The croak that came out of his mouth loosely resembled, 'Case,' whereas the words he'd spoken in his mind were, _I've just had my erect penis pressed up against another woman's back. Hope you don't mind._ He wasn't lying about having a case. Endearing himself to Janine Hawkins was all for a case. Her case. Rose's case. It wasn't his fault that the night ended up like it did. Was it?

Rose ran her hand over the bedsheet, a smile growing on her face.

"You don't need pyjamas, do you?"

Obviously she was okay with the recent location of his penis.

Sherlock cleared his throat, blinked twice to erase thoughts of infidelity, dropped the towel and awkwardly slid into bed.

Rose shuffled over to him, and found her rightful place alongside him with her head nestled into his neck. She kissed the underside of his jaw and whispered, "I missed you."

Sherlock had automatically curled an arm around Rose. His body relaxed with this familiar position, but his chest ached when Rose added, "I'm sorry about earlier."

He closed his eyes and kissed the top of her head.

"I'm sorry for walking out on you," he said.

Rose rearranged herself so she could look up at Sherlock, her chin resting on his chest.

"And I'm sorry for throwing a teaspoon at you," she confessed, a tiny smile growing on her lips.

"You threw a teaspoon at me?"

Rose chuckled, her mouth stretching into a broader, sheepish grin. "At the door, actually."

Sherlock matched her expression of mirth and asked, "How much damage did one teaspoon do? You really shouldn't be so reckless."

Another tiny laugh escaped Rose.

"I think I only managed to damage my pride."

As Rose narrowed the gap between them and pressed a kiss to his lips, Sherlock let his fingers drift along Rose's arm. He noted the soft texture of her non-coconut post-soap-lathered skin from a hypoallergenic, no-nonsense, boring, but no olfactory-triggering mis-memories substitute bathroom product.

Rose's mouth slid expertly over his and Sherlock's fingers reached up and tangled themselves in her hair. Sherlock returned her kiss with equal enthusiasm. He continued navigating the rest of her body—skimming his fingertips underneath her pyjama top, running them along her spine and into her waistband before finally pressing them against her buttocks.

 _Just checking,_ he thought, feeling something in his stomach yearning for her. He needed to confirm with every touch that this was Rose who had now straddled him and was nipping and sucking his neck.

He reached up when she repositioned herself, bringing his hands around and underneath her top, filling them with her breasts. Rose hummed and moaned with delight as he skimmed her nipples with his thumbs. That was all the confirmation Sherlock needed. He rose up, and grabbed the bottom of her pyjama top. It was swiftly discarded allowing Sherlock to dip his head and press his lips to the base of her throat, feeling her pulse hammering beneath, while he ran his hands along the curves of her breasts.

His penis had well and truly joined the party now, after the previous shameful act of turning up at the wrong address. Sherlock pulled Rose's hips closer, grinding his pelvis into hers. She gasped his name in pleasurable surprise, a sound that made his head swim with illicit thoughts.

His arms encircled Rose and he rolled her to the bed. His mouth was instantly on hers again, avid, hot and hungry, while his hands roamed and found the waistband of her pyjama shorts once more. Sherlock's lips left Rose's as he knelt up and finished undressing her. Rose's desperate hands pulled him down again. As she tangled her legs around his body, Sherlock crushed his mouth to hers.

Sherlock could sense Rose arching beneath him and he desperately wanted to commit to memory not only the feel of her, but her new scent so that it would all be entwined and captured with this moment forever.

He eased back and began to trail a hand along the length of her body, navigating dips and curves as his mouth heated her skin with nibbling kisses along her throat. Sherlock listened to Rose's murmured responses and he began to ache and forget that he wanted to slowly bring her to the edge with no chance for her to anticipate his moves.

His leisurely pace wasn't fast enough for Rose, he found, for she grasped his hand and repositioned it between her legs. He emitted a deep throated chuckle before pressing a kiss to the delicate skin below her ear. His hand and clever fingers maintained a steady rhythm while Sherlock searched Rose's eyes. He wanted to see desire and need echoed there and witness first hand her undoing. Her partially lowered lids and flushed cheeks were instantly arousing.

Rose's head was turned toward Sherlock's, her lips parted—an invitation. She wanted more of him, but he kept his mouth but a whisper away as he increased the pressure of his stroking.

With a whimper in frustration, Rose reached out and drew Sherlock's mouth to hers. She worked her tongue against his, impatient and needy. Sherlock's own body began to throb with his own desires. Rose had probably sensed this, the professional that she was, as she ran a hand down his chest and torso in one long possessive stroke.

Sherlock hummed against her mouth as her fingers encircled him. He eased back from their kiss to give himself some air and to allow Rose better access. He had still wanted his lips and tongue to follow the glorious path previously charted by his hand, and to do that, he would have to deny himself Rose's direct stimulation for a while.

But Rose had other ideas. When she pushed lightly against him, he acquiesced and suddenly found himself lying flat on his back, with Rose skimming her lips over his chest in her own eager quest to unhinge him. He knew it. This was a battle for dominance, and he...

_Oh!_

His breath caught, and then he exhaled unsteadily. Of course. He was still the student, and she the... the... mistress.

Sherlock was caught up in a complete sensory overload—paralysed and stupified, and defaulting to his baser desires. He could just yield and give himself over to the shear pleasure of Rose's expert tongue with its light flicks and the firm hold of her mouth. He threaded his fingers through her hair, his breathing becoming shallow and ragged. He knew it would end all too soon if he didn't stop her and re-engage in pleasuring her himself. But... _Christ!..._ it was easier to lie back and allow Rose to savour and exploit him.

He knew that these days he could never be that selfish.

_Never say never... Mister Holmes._

_Wait, what?_

Sherlock's head swam.

_Jesus fucking Christ!_

"Rose," Sherlock said in a mild panic. Where had that voice come from? "Rose," he said again, rising up on his elbows and gently tapping Rose's head.

Rose eased out of her task and gazed up at Sherlock, her eyes darkened with passion. Her expression changed when she noted her lover's.

"What? What's wrong?"

"Just come back up here," he said unconvincingly.

"Why? What's wrong?" she asked again.

"I... just want to see you."

Rose's mouth split into a broad grin.

"You want to see me?" she asked, mocking him with an arched eyebrow. "Then make an appointment. I'm busy."

Rose dipped her head again, but Sherlock bent forward and tugged at her shoulders.

"No, Rose."

She disengaged once more, her brow furrowed this time.

"Come here," he said, lowering his voice to lend an authoritative tone. "I want to look at you while I'm fucking you."

A flicker of delight crossed Rose's face at the rough edge to Sherlock's words. She prowled upwards, not taking her eyes from Sherlock's. He expected to slowly lower her to the bed; what he didn't anticipate was for Rose to immediately straddle him and take him inside with one hard thrust.

He tried not to react too loudly, but the look of triumph on Rose's face told him that he had vocalised his surprise.

"How's the view from down there?" she asked him.

She had laid down the challenge and now Sherlock would rise to it.

He grasped her around the waist and flipped them over, pinning Rose beneath him.

"Better," he said, taking himself deeper until mewls of pleasure escaped Rose. Her sounds aroused him beyond measure.

This is what he wanted. To bury himself in her, to feel the length of her body beneath him, moving under him and against him, to fill his nostrils with her scent and hear her gasps of delight. All Rose. Not some anonymous mouth around his penis that could belong to anyone really.

 _Or no one. Just Rose,_ his mind countered desperately.

Sherlock dipped his head, resting it in the crook of her neck. His jagged breathing matched Rose's. He inhaled deeply. Sherlock needed to categorise and file a new shampoo scent to match the nondescript soap that he was now adding to Rose's file in his Mind Palace. Add that to the audio file containing tiny moans of pleasure Rose was emitting. It would be useful for next time to have everything in one place.

His body was alive, nerves heightened with every thrust; the pressure in his centre was glorious. But he slowed to a steady pace. He wanted to extend his enjoyment... _their_ enjoyment, despite Rose encouraging him with urgent hands.

And now to file away the shampoo...

But no reading was forthcoming as Sherlock buried his face and tangled his fingers into Rose's soft hair.

"What... what _is_ that?" he asked.

"What?" Rose asked breathlessly.

A half-hearted thrust. "Your shampoo," he replied. "What's it called?"

He'd stopped altogether. Rose's face was flushed, and her eyes widened in a sense of disbelief.

Her voice was staggered and desperate when she replied, "It's called _Fuck Me Harder_."

 _Oh,_ thought Sherlock. He was a quick study. He wanted to apologise, but thought that might spoil the mood.

He was grateful that Rose pulled his mouth toward hers. Ravenous and ruthless, she fed off him until his own hunger returned. She arched her hips in need. Sherlock quickly shut down his logic centre until primitive desires overtook him once more.

He drove them harder—that was what Rose had demanded—with her arms locked tightly around his body. She matched Sherlock's pace, encouraging him. Bolts of pleasure hammered through him at the sound of Rose's ragged breath and her pleading his name. When her breath finally caught on a moan, he knew she was almost there. He was steeped in all of her; there would be no mistakes next time.

Blood rushed heated underneath his skin and Rose gripped his hips, desperate for her own final release. She arched against him when Sherlock's body was flooded with sensations. He dropped his head to the crook of her neck, gasped out a 'Rose' then allowed himself to ride the wave of his climax. Rose's orgasm came hard and fast and her fingers found their way into his curls.

As Sherlock gently rocked into her, his mind blanked as it always did post-orgasm. All logical thoughts remained absent as his mind flooded with emotion. Self-doubt and paranoia dominated. The case. Charles Augustus Magnussen and Janine Hawkins. He couldn't do this. He would lose. He would lose Rose. She would slip through his fingers while his mind was occupied elsewhere. While he was trying to be clever, the most important person in his life would leave him.

Sherlock felt an unbearable pressure behind his eyes and he kept his face buried in Rose's neck.

He felt Rose exhale deeply underneath him. Twin hearts hammered in unison, and her arms slackened around him. Sherlock didn't want to move away from her in case she looked into his face, and demanded to know what was wrong.

"What's wrong?" she whispered.

"Just taking a moment," he responded, his voice muffled and his heart torn between the joy of Rose knowing him so intimately, and disappointment that he was so transparent.

Rose reached up and gently caressed his hair _as if she knew everything._

"Normally you roll off me straight away—"

"Sorry," he said, immediately moving from her and rolling onto his back.

"I didn't mean that," Rose continued. "I just thought it was because your nerves are heightened and you don't like to be touched."

Sherlock didn't reply; he stared up at the ceiling, one arm bent up and resting on his forehead. Rose turned to face him and raised herself onto one elbow. Sherlock knew his eyes would appear moist and he clenched his jaw.

"Sherlock—"

"Don't, Rose," he said. A pre-emptive strike, but it could always backfire.

He was surprised when Rose lay back down on her side of the bed.

Sherlock held out an arm and said, "You can still..."

His mind was almost working at full capacity now that his orgasm was more or less a distant memory. Self-confidence and Brilliance strode into his Mind Palace.

Rose sat up, twisted her hair around her shoulder and lay down to rest on Sherlock's chest. He embraced her, feeling the tension leave his body. With his other arm, he reached out and turned off the bedside lamp.

"It's some kind of fibrology thing," Rose said, her voice floating through the darkness.

"Sorry, what?"

"My shampoo," she explained. "There's no fruit or perfumes in it. That's why it doesn't have a strong smell."

"Oh," Sherlock replied, his voice laced with disappointment. He was also grateful that Rose had chosen to change the subject, rather than interrogate him about his uncharacteristic behaviour post-sex. She would make a good therapist some day, he thought, assuming she'd somehow bring the conversation back around in a stealth-like manner.

"Do you miss it?" she asked.

"What?"

"The smell of my soap and shampoo."

"Yes."

He felt Rose move in his arms and shuffle upwards so she could press her lips to his jaw. Sherlock turned to his side, so that they were face to face, barely a breath apart, with his arms wrapped firmly around her.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I just don't want to have anything on me that smells or tastes like something. Not coconut, anyway."

Her voice trembled little and Sherlock's stomach dropped.

"It's fine, Rose," he whispered back.

"Why don't you buy me something? If it comes from you then it will be special, and I'll use it then."

Sherlock's heart lifted at the suggestion, and he mentally debated the benefits of having Rose smell like _something_ again versus the horror of having to go _shopping_ for skin and hair products. He lightly kissed her forehead then replied, "I can do that."

They remained silent for a time as Rose snuggled her head underneath Sherlock's chin. Sherlock's thoughts kept him awake and he distractedly ran his fingers through Rose's hair.

"I'm glad you came over," she said sleepily.

"I just thought I'd stop by and say hello," Sherlock replied mischievously. "I just happened to be in the area."

Rose chuckled, her light breath tickling his neck. "Well, it was lovely to see you."

Sherlock finally closed his eyes as he felt Rose grow heavy in his arms. All he had wanted to do for the entire evening was to see her. His chest expanded; his heart was full. The next thing he had to do was to hold on tight.


	52. Look At Him, Dashing About

**Chapter 52 - Look At Him, Dashing About**

Rose felt the mattress shift before the warm slender body of her boyfriend wrapped around her. He nuzzled her ear sending ripples of pleasure throughout her entire body.

Still heavy with sleep, she whispered wearily, "Not now, Sherlock, later. We've got all day."

The warmth disappeared as her lover returned to his side of the bed. It was only a mere seconds before Rose sank into a deep sleep again.

The second time Sherlock woke her, he was looming over her and smelled deliciously like his after-shave, as if he had showered and dressed for the day. But that couldn't be right, could it?

"I'm going..." he was saying, as Rose drifted from slumber to wakefulness, amid light kisses about her face from Sherlock's warm lips. The room was still dark, and Rose had no idea what time it was.

"Why are you going?" she asked, rolling to her back.

"I have to go."

"But it's Sunday." She lifted her head and turned to the digital clock as if the device would confirm for her the day of the week. "Isn't it?" she asked hesitatingly before lowering herself back down.

"I'll be back soon," Sherlock said, closing the gap between them and pressing a kiss to her lips. "Goodbye, Rose."

Rose blinked slowly, still not comprehending, but she knew Sherlock was waiting for their goodbye ritual to commence. She could see his outline in the half light emitted through the gap in the door.

With furrowed brow, she posed the question, "Do you love me?"

"Yes," he replied, his mouth widening into a smile.

"I love you too."

Sherlock chuckled and kissed her again. Rose was too tired to respond properly before her boyfriend was away from her. She rolled to her side, too sleepy to contemplate why Sherlock was leaving so early on a Sunday morning. She was once more enveloped by sleep even before the front door clicked shut.

* * *

Sherlock hesitated on the landing outside his living room. He drew in a weary breath before opening the door. In a mere seconds, he'd already ascertained that Janine Hawkins was still in his flat, going by the bag and coat lying on the coffee table.

The air in the flat was still. As it was just on dawn and a Sunday—as Rose had quite rightly pointed out—he didn't expect Janine to be awake either. Sherlock was operating on only a few hours sleep—not an unfamiliar state in which to find himself.

Sherlock swiftly shed his coat and jacket, filled the kettle with water and switched it on. He settled into his armchair with his laptop and stared at the screen, only now beginning to analyse his actions over the last few hours.

He was just beginning to wade through the quagmire of self-disappointment with his now familiar mantra, ' _It's all for a case,_ ' when he heard his bedroom door click open. Sherlock glanced at the time in the corner of his laptop; it was now 9:12am. So Janine didn't like to sleep in as long as Rose did on a Sunday morning. Although, Magnussen's PA _was_ in an unfamiliar place and probably felt uncomfortable and self-conscious about sleeping for too long in someone else's bed, he concluded.

"Mornin'!" the woman in question posed to Sherlock, her voice full of familiarity and self-confidence.

"Morning," Sherlock echoed back a great deal less enthusiastically and through unexpressive eyes. He noted that Janine was still wearing his shirt, the uniform of a casual lover.

He closed his laptop lid and made to uncross his legs as Janine crossed the kitchen.

"Oh, don't get up," she bid him. "Just going to put some coffee on. Would you like a cup?"

"I usually drink tea first thing in the morning," Sherlock said, gesturing to the small side table.

Janine shot the empty table a curious look before Sherlock realised that Mrs Hudson had failed to make him a morning cuppa. The absence of a tea tray reminded the detective that the landlady no longer made him his morning tea since he usually spent the weekends at Rose's. He wondered how many times the elder woman had cleared away a cold cup of tea before realising that Sherlock was no longer home at that time of the morning to consume it.

"Would you like me to make you one?" Janine asked, her face bright with amusement.

Sherlock hesitated before answering. He had already filled the kettle and turned it on. His initial response would've been 'No, thank you,' but on further contemplation, he realised that Janine would be drinking a coffee and he would have to endure her company for at least that long. He may as well have a cup of tea while he did so.

"Yes... please," he replied. "The kettle's already boiled."

She chuckled to herself and looked up at the open shelving. Retrieving two mugs and a teapot, she remarked, "Your bed is so comfortable."

"Is it," Sherlock replied tonelessly, opening his laptop lid once more.

"Did you even come to bed?" Janine asked, reaching for a cafetière from further along the kitchen counter.

"I don't need much sleep," Sherlock replied swiftly, avoiding a direct answer.

Janine held the cafetière in one hand as she faced Sherlock.

"If you were worried about me jumping you during the night, you needn't have." She turned back to the tea things and chuckled. "I sleep like a dead person. Or so I'm told."

"Dead people don't sleep."

Another laugh escaped Janine and she looked up at him again.

"You know, you say the most unpredictable things. It's really refreshing to hear."

"Commenting on your poorly worded comparison is hardly unpredictable."

Janine returned her attention back to her tea preparation while Sherlock tried in vain to concentrate on the list of emails in his inbox.

"Well, your comments are refreshing anyway," she said.

There was a moment's silence that Sherlock attempted to fill by rapidly typing out a reply to a lacklustre client.

 _Send further details about the evening in question,_ he wrote, before pressing Send.

"Okay, I can't find it," Janine murmured, staring up at the shelving before turning to Sherlock. "Have you run out of ground coffee?"

Sherlock furrowed his brow. He rarely made coffee at home. A cup of coffee was something he purchased while he navigated the streets of London, or accepted from Molly Hooper during a long session under the microscope at Bart's. On occasion, he made a pot if he needed to stay awake all night conducting research or experimenting.

"Check further along," he replied, indicating the shelves near the stovetop with a tilt of his head.

He heard Janine mutter, "That's inefficient." There was a further clattering of crockery, then Janine remarked, "I'll put it up here with the tea leaves."

Sherlock cared little about where the coffee ground packet ended up. These days he spent more time in Rose's kitchen (perhaps rearranging her things more efficiently) than he did in his. His heart began to ache for her all over again.

"How do you usually spend your Sundays?" Janine asked him, breaking into his thoughts once more.

"Days of the week mean little to me. If I'm not already on a case, I could possibly be conducting research at Bart's hospital. In fact," he said, making a point of looking at his watch, "the pathologist is expecting me this morning. I should be going soon."

The lies just kept coming. Molly Hooper was not expecting the Consulting Detective this morning. Doctor Hooper was most likely not at Bart's. In fact, Sherlock wagered that his favourite pathologist was lying curled up in bed with Tiny Tim… or Tom Thumb, or whatever her fiance's name was.

Rose wouldn't be awake until closer to eleven, but Sherlock had some shopping to do first, and he really wanted to make it to Bayswater before she stirred. There was something appealing about slipping into an already warm bed, around an already warm body. _Rose's body, specifically. Let's just be clear about that._

"Well, I won't keep you long," Janine said. He could hear the tinkling of cups as she placed everything onto a tea tray.

She brought the tray into the living room and set it down beside Sherlock. It contained a tea pot, one tea cup and saucer, sugar, a small jug of milk, a coffee mug and the cafetière.

"I'll just have one cup, then I'll be out of your hair," she said as she straightened up.

"If this is the service you're going to provide, you're more than welcome to visit anytime," Sherlock replied, with false enthusiasm. Now that there was an end in sight, he could afford to be a little accommodating.

"I do this all day long," Janine responded, walking back toward the coffee table. She retrieved her bag from it and added with a smile, "I'm perfectly qualified." She hoisted her bag to her shoulder and said, "I'll just freshen up. Won't be a minute."

She disappeared into Sherlock's bedroom while Sherlock poured himself a cup of tea. Damn, she had mentioned work—a perfect opening for Sherlock to commence interrogating her.

Janine reappeared just as Sherlock was draining his cup. He had placed his laptop onto the floor beside his chair, ready to 'chat' with Janine.

"Nothing," Janine said, frowning at her phone's screen as she walked through the kitchen dressed in her clothes from the night before. "Amber," she explained."Not awake most probably. The whole world has a lie in on Sundays." Janine sank into the chair across from Sherlock, placing her bag on the floor beside her. "I'd love to know what that's like." She leaned forward in her chair, reaching over and depressing the plunger on the cafetière. "I hate answering my phone when my boss calls with anything less than an alert voice, especially on a weekend. He makes such disgusting insinuations otherwise."

Sherlock's senses piqued.

"What's he like to work for?"

Janine gave him a sheepish smile. "Whoops, my professionalism's slipping. I mustn't speak ill of my boss."

Sherlock regarded Janine for a moment while she poured the coffee into her mug.

"Then what's he like as a human being?" Sherlock asked, one corner of his mouth curving upward.

Janine matched his smile.

"A slimy bastard," she replied without hesitation. "Now don't quote me on that."

Janine leant back into the armchair, curling her fingers around her coffee mug. She crossed her legs and slowly sipped.

Sherlock picked up the teapot and began pouring himself another cup. Keeping his eyes focussed on the tea, he asked Janine in a mildly interested tone, "So… why do you staying working for him?"

When Janine didn't immediately reply, Sherlock leant back in his seat, raising his eyebrows at her as he took a sip of tea.

"Well," Janine began hesitantly.

She didn't continue with an answer, so Sherlock nonchalantly placed his teacup onto the side table.

"Because you're not there for the money," he said casually. "That's obvious."

"Oh, aren't I?"

"No," Sherlock said succinctly. "Your dress is at least four seasons old."

Janine raised an impressed brow.

"Really?"

"And you've fixed the hem a couple of times. You can only afford a small selection of good quality clothing—as your job dictates—so your take home pay isn't that great. And then there's these..." Sherlock slid forward in his seat and extended a hand toward Janine's shoe. "May I?"

Janine pointed her stockinged toes, allowing Sherlock to slide off her high heel. He held up the shoe, displaying the inner soul to Janine.

"Well-worn," he said, tilting the shoe this way and that. "Over the course of four... no, _five_ years." He turned the shoe over. "The tip's been replaced... _three_ times, and you're due for a fourth." Sherlock rose from his seat still clutching the shoe. "Overdue, actually. From the way you're walking," he said, grasping the heel tip and jiggling it, "this is about to come loose. You could've had a nasty fall."

"Jesus," Janine said on an exhale as Sherlock rounded his armchair.

He rummaged in the drawers behind his desk and held up a replacement heel tip. He compared it to the one attached to Janine's shoe then dropped it back into the drawer. He plucked out another and again made the comparison.

"You have a supply of high heel tips?" Janine asked.

"They make interesting impressions in mud... ah!" He found a match then turned to his living room table. Clearing a space on the corner of the table, he placed the shoe and replacement tip down, then turned to another drawer. "Except if the heel wearer was running from the crime scene. No heel tip impressions in the mud then." He retrieved a pair of pliers from the second drawer. Glancing over at Janine, he added, "And they make interesting puncture wounds, especially in the side of the head."

Janine laughed lightly then watched as Sherlock used the pliers to remove the old tip from the heel of her stiletto. It slid from its metal pin easily. He then positioned the replacement tip over the pin, pushed it in lightly then suddenly slammed the stiletto heel against the desk. Janine swore at the sound of the impact.

"Your poor table!" she exclaimed with a nervous laugh.

"Imagine that on the back of someone's head," Sherlock remarked. "And you could easily take an eye out with these. In fact someone did, just recently. It was in the papers."

"Yeah, I read about that."

He brought the shoe over to Janine and surprised her by kneeling in front of her. She dutifully pointed her toes once more as Sherlock slid her high heel back on. He could tell she wasn't breathing. Remaining where he was, Sherlock gave Janine a warm smile.

"I'll need your other heel," he said. "Otherwise they won't match."

"Oh, of course," Janine replied, extending her other foot.

Sherlock slid off her stiletto and repeated the steps he'd performed earlier. This time Janine watched him while she silently sipped her coffee. When he returned the high heel to her foot, she gave him an embarrassed thank you.

Sherlock lingered longer than necessary by her feet and asked, "So... you keep working for the man... why?"

He gazed up at her, long enough to see the discomfort in her eyes. Sherlock stood once more, then made himself comfortable back in his armchair. He knew the conflict Janine was having. Sherlock had performed an act of kindness, of gentlemanly courtesy, and Janine felt uncomfortable with either having to lie now or be dismissive.

"It's a long story," she said resignedly. "Perhaps I can tell you over dinner sometime?"

Sherlock's mouth stretched into a smile.

"And I'll take that opportunity to introduce you to a better class of restaurant, not those dives you've been recommending recently."

Janine returned his smile, the expression behind it almost relieved, Sherlock thought.

"But not until the end of the week," she added, taking another sip of her coffee. "Tomorrow we're off to torment our poor office staff in Cardiff."

"Ah. Travelling again?"

"Yeah," responded Janine, heaving a sigh. "Makes it hard to look for a—" She paused, distracted by a message alert from her phone that was nestled in the top of her bag. "That better be Amber, and not the sleazeball."

Sherlock waited, silently sipping his tea as Janine read the message on her phone.

"Oh, she's hopeless," she said eventually. "Amber. Stayed at her sister's because it was closer. Forgot all about me." She looked up and gave Sherlock a weary smile. "I'd best be off."

When Janine reached for her bag and stood, Sherlock left his seat as well. He side-stepped away from Janine, giving her room to move as he rebuttoned his jacket.

"Well this has been lovely," Janine said. "You're very kind, Sherl."

Sherlock grimaced inwardly at the name. "That's... what friends do... don't they?"

"Is that what we are?" Janine said, quirking a challenging eyebrow.

Sherlock shrugged lightly. "What else would we be?"

Janine stepped closer—uncomfortably closer. She reached out and smoothed a hand over Sherlock's lapel while maintaining eye contact.

"I don't know," she said thoughtfully, while Sherlock narrowed his eyes at her. "I'm working on it."

"Then you'll have your work cut out for you."

A tiny smile spread across Janine's face before her expression became one of determination. She narrowed the gap between them, with Sherlock too slow to move his head away until the last second. The kiss that was intended for his lips brushed one corner of his mouth. She eased back, then lifted her hand to wipe traces of lipstick away with her thumb.

"I'll call you," she said softly.

Sherlock had almost frozen in place, his heart racing and his mind spinning. He nodded his head imperceptibly then looked on as Janine turned from him and headed toward the landing through the living room door.

When he heard the sound of her newly repaired heels descending the staircase, he breathed out slowly. He shook his head lightly to clear it. In the days before he'd ever laid eyes on Rosemarie Sulford, Janine's gestures would've had no effect on him. He knew it wasn't Ms Hawkins' allure that had made him react as he had done just then. These small gestures were now connected to something more, and were only ever delivered by the one person who mattered. Sherlock knew his body was reacting automatically. It didn't mean anything. It _couldn't_ mean anything.

Perhaps it was time to employ the techniques he'd learned in the Himalayas, just in case.

Sherlock moved toward the fireplace and checked his reflection in the mirror above the mantelpiece. He rubbed at the edge of his mouth where there were still traces of Janine's lipstick.

This is ridiculous, he thought.

He strode determinedly toward the back of the flat and into the bathroom. He moistened a square of toilet paper and wiped it on his mouth until there were no traces of lipstick remaining. He scrunched up the paper and tossed it lightly to the small bin in the corner. Glancing at the receptacle to double-check he hadn't missed, he noticed a small glimmer of a foil _something_ on the floor beside the bin. Sherlock stooped to retrieve it. He discovered that it was a contraceptive pill packet, all used except for the row of dummy pills at the end.

He narrowed his eyes in thought. Not Rose's, as she not only used a different brand, but she also hadn't been in his flat for ages. This packet wasn't there yesterday. Janine, then, he concluded, before tossing the finished product into the bin where it should've landed in the first place.

Sherlock made to leave the bathroom, then had a second thought. He swiftly retrieved the pill packet, wrapped it in toilet paper, then deposited it the bin once more. It wouldn't do to have the landlady discover that little piece of evidence…

…Nor Rose, should she ever return to Baker Street.

 _To Leinster Gardens then_ , he thought finally, exiting the bathroom, his chest swelling with that _thing… what was it?_

_Oh, yes._

_Love._

* * *

Rose had her head in the oven when she heard Sherlock entering her flat. She backed out, wiped the sweat from her forehead with the back of her wrist then looked up when Sherlock strode in. Small creases appeared in his brow as he took in the scene.

Instead of posing the question, _What are you doing_ , like most people would, he asked, "Why?"

She gave him a small smile. Of course he'd already worked out she was cleaning the oven, and given that he'd hired a cleaner for the end of this coming week, he'd be wondering why _she_ was doing it now.

"Because I didn't think they'd clean it properly with everything else they have to do," she replied from her position on the floor, "and getting rid of the smoke residue from all of the furnishings and walls is their main priority."

"It's an end of lease type of clean, Rose. They'll be doing everything."

"I've had that type of clean before," Rose said, rising to her feet. "And they don't necessarily do it properly. There's a new property manager doing this month's inspection, and I don't know how strict they are."

She approached Sherlock and kissed his pouty lips without touching him with her rubber gloves.

"Hello," she said, smiling at his still sullen expression.

"I've bought something for you," he said, producing a largish paper bag from a pharmacy and placing it on the kitchen counter. "I thought you'd still be in bed."

"Oh, thank you! Let's see it."

"No," Sherlock said, barring Rose's view by standing between her and the counter. "Not until you've finished."

Rose chuckled lightly at his childish petulance.

"Well," she said, turning back to the oven, "I'm going to be ages." She stooped and peered into it. "This stuff's not coming off. I hardly ever use it, so I bet it's always been like this and I'm going to get the blame for it."

Sherlock brushed past Rose and bent over. He felt inside the oven and tutted.

"It's stone cold," he remarked. "How can you possibly clean it when it's like this. And look..."

Sherlock closed the oven door and pointed to a dial.

"What?" asked Rose.

"A self-cleaning function," he said, turning the dial around.

"Is it?"

"It won't do everything," Sherlock said, straightening up. "But it will give you a start. If you want to clean it when it's cold, bicarbonate of soda will work best for you."

"I... don't have that. Why would I have any?"

Sherlock tutted and sighed dramatically. To Rose's surprise, he swiftly exited the kitchen.

"Where are you going?"

From the vicinity of the front door, he called back, "To borrow some!"

* * *

Sherlock stirred his cup of tea slowly. When in the company of the Clarence House Cannibal these days, he felt flutterings of unease. On any occasion, Tonya Small could say something cutting, or make some small seemingly benign comment that would put him squarely in the camp of misogynists.

This morning however, so far all she had done was to applaud his accomplishments with Janine. It was slow work, she confirmed for him, and the likes of Janine Hawkins would never be tricked so easily if he had flirted with her from the outset.

Tonya joined Sherlock in the living room and placed a box of bicarbonate of soda onto the coffee table beside the tea tray.

"It's unopened. Darling Rosebud may keep it. She should wipe her walls down, too. I detest that odour of cannabis. I don't know how she doesn't notice it."

"Oh, she does," Sherlock replied. "She's booked a cleaning company for this Friday." Sherlock bent the truth a little. He didn't know why he wanted to avoid explaining to Ms Small that it were he who had arranged the cleaning of Rose's flat before her inspection by the tenancy manager at the end of the month.

Tonya furrowed her brow, and said, "Then why is she cleaning the oven?"

"My thoughts exactly."

Tonya shrugged and shook her head as if she knew Rose's way of thinking.

"Now, darling," she said to Sherlock. "About your dinner with Ms Hawkins this week—where have you decided?"

"I... haven't narrowed down a restaurant yet. It will be—"

"An exclusive place. One that is hard to get into."

"Yes."

"And of course you may kiss her on this occasion."

Sherlock blinked rapidly.

"Sorry, what?"

"Kiss her, darling. It would be the most opportunistic time."

Sherlock's heart began to beat erratically. This wasn't right. Tonya was misinterpreting his plans.

"Ah..." he said, at a loss for words.

Tonya leaned forward and spoke in a gentle voice. "I know what you're thinking, and it's very... now what's that word? _Noble!_ Yes, noble, that you think you should remain faithful to our darling Rose. But this has nothing to do with infidelity."

Sherlock's chest began to expand as if the empty space was being consumed by a foam filler made for sealing cavities and gaps in walls. He imagined it would be just as painful and just as toxic if taken internally as the advice Ms Small was now giving him.

He slowly turned his head away, and stared unseeing at a painting on the wall opposite. He clenched his fingers together then flattened them against his thigh.

"Mr Holmes," Tonya was saying. She paused until Sherlock turned his attention back to her. "Charles Augustus Magnussen has information about Rose that could destroy her reputation and career. Imagine if he did so, and the one way you could have stopped him was to press a kiss onto the lips of the harlot who works for him."

Tonya leaned back into the couch with her cup of tea in hand, a satisfied glint in her eye.

Sherlock bowed his head thoughtfully and stared at the teaspoon that lay on the tea tray. Leaning back against Ms Small's sofa, he folded his arms across his chest and raised a hand to his mouth. Sherlock slowly ran the back of his thumb along his bottom lip as he considered Tonya's words.

 _A... kiss_ , he mused. _Just... one... kiss..._


	53. The Arse-End of the Universe

**Chapter 53 –** **The Arse-end of the Universe**

Rose rearranged herself in Sherlock's arms, happy at last to get back to their usual Sunday afternoon routine of cuddling in bed. They'd finished cleaning the appliances in the kitchen, much to Sherlock's relief. The detective had returned from Ms Small's flat in possession of a box of bicarb soda and a pensive expression.

He had disappeared into Rose's bedroom and returned wearing his pyjamas. When Rose questioned his attire, Sherlock had stated that he didn't want to clean wearing his button up shirt and work trousers. Then he proceeded to pull out the washing machine and fridge so they could clean behind them. They mixed the bicarb soda into a paste and spread it throughout the oven. Leaving the bicarbonate of soda to work its magic, they retreated to the bathroom, where Sherlock presented Rose with his present.

Rose was treated to the Consulting Detective lathering her skin with a soap containing apricot kernel oil and shea butter, scented with a lavender essential oil. Her new shampoo also contained lavender along with the essential oils of geranium and chamomile.

"All very calming and sleep-inducing," Rose remarked as Sherlock lathered the shampoo into her hair. She stood with her back to him in the shower stall and closed her eyes, soothed by his gentle, yet thorough, application.

"And not a scent that promotes _licking_ ," Sherlock had said, without any traces of humour in his remark.

Sherlock's efforts prompted Rose to return the favour using her plain, perfume-less soap, since Sherlock found the fancier soaps irritating to his skin. The mutual bathing resulted in a slow build-up of pulsing sensations between the pair, a maddening ache of longing in which they both luxuriated.

Eventually, they'd found their way to Rose's bed, where their love-making was sweet and tender, following on from the lazy explorations of foreplay in the shower. After holding Rose in his arms for all of twenty seconds post-coitus, Sherlock had said, "You're going to have to blow dry your hair if we're to stay in bed cuddling for any length of time."

Rose resignedly acquiesced, knowing that on an ordinary day, Sherlock could barely tolerate the strands of her hair tickling his chest. Cold, wet hair was definitely out of the question.

After returning from the bathroom once more, she settled into Sherlock's embrace, and the pair lay together in silence, not really sleeping. Half an hour passed before Sherlock began running his thumb along Rose's arm in earnest.

She closed her eyes against his gentle caresses. Now and again Sherlock would thread his fingers through her hair. He nuzzled in close, curling his body around hers and Rose wondered if he was ready for another round.

But the caressing continued with Sherlock alternating the tips of his fingers with the flat of his palm. He'd embrace Rose tightly, breathing in deeply along the curve of her neck. On one such gesture, Rose hunched her shoulder as Sherlock's exhale tickled her skin.

"What _are_ you doing?" she asked finally, and laughing lightly.

Sherlock shushed her fiercely and stroked a thumb along the length of her arm again, curling his body more tightly behind her. Curious that she couldn't feel any evidence of arousal, Rose wriggled free, turning to face him. He tutted and regarded her with two creases in his brow.

"What are _you_ doing?" he asked.

"I'm joining the party," Rose replied, smoothing her hand along Sherlock's chest.

Sherlock grasped her wrist before she could reach her intended destination.

"That's... not what I'm doing," he said.

"Okay," Rose responded. She smiled at him resignedly. "What are you doing then?"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at his lover.

"I'm recalibrating."

This was a new one, Rose thought. Even for Sherlock. And she'd never heard the term _recalibrating_ as being a euphemism for anything sexual.

"Recalibrating what?"

Sherlock hesitated. His voice remained expressionless when he answered, "My love for you."

Rose didn't know how to respond even though her lips parted in readiness for a reply. But she said nothing, and studied Sherlock's eyes for further information.

Sherlock huffed an impatient sigh.

"I'm rewiring my entorhinal cortex," he explained. "An important part of the olfactory system. And to a lesser extent, I'm stimulating the mechanoreceptors in my somatosensory system. All this leads to various brain chemicals being released—the biology of love, if you like."

"Oh, I see," Rose replied in a small voice. She knew a little about external triggers in a psychological sense. This deliberate act of storing memories by Sherlock should come as no surprise. And he had once told her about his Mind Palace. Granted she was stoned at the time.

"So turn around," Sherlock bid her in a low voice, "and let me continue."

Rose silently obeyed, her thoughts still dwelling on Sherlock's initial words, wondering why they sounded odd, but so welcome.

Eventually she was able to articulate what was bugging her.

"You know, you almost said it."

Sherlock's wandering hand paused along Rose's thigh.

"Said what?"

Rose swallowed, and tried to keep her voice light and casual.

" _I love you._ "

"No, I didn't."

Rose freed herself from Sherlock's embrace once more so she could face him.

" _My love for you_ ," she said, quoting Sherlock. "That's _so close._ Just change the 'my' to an 'I', and—"

"What?"

"—remove the 'for', and you've said it."

Sherlock frowned at Rose in disapproval.

Rose matched his expression, and she kept her eyes locked on his.

"So just..." She paused, drawing in a steadying breath. "...say it."

The intensity of the moment brought an uncomfortable pressure behind Rose's eyes, and she dared not blink.

"Rose," Sherlock said, his tone sounding like he was ready to negotiate with a killer who was pointing a loaded gun at him. "Don't raise your expectations. We had an agreement."

"We didn't have an agreement."

"About our exchange of sentiment. You pose the question on my behalf. Why are you trying to change it?"

"It wasn't an agreement. It just sort of evolved."

Sherlock was silent for a moment while he studied her. Rose suddenly felt a wave of guilt wash over her. This wasn't fair. Why had she put him on the spot like that?

The tension of the moment left her body and she whispered, "I'm sorry." She quickly narrowed the gap between them before her tears could betray her. She kissed Sherlock on the lips, then eased back just a little so she could add, "I know you love me." Dropping back to his chest so he could cradle her in his arm without seeing her expression, Rose added, "You don't need to say it. I'm sorry I hassled you about it."

Rose was met with silence as Sherlock curled an arm around her. His caresses had ceased. Now Rose knew he would be analysing her words, feeling inadequate as a partner once more, and it was all her fault.

"We're in a good place," she felt compelled to add. "Nothing needs to change. Don't worry about it."

"What do you mean, _We're in a good place_?" he asked. "Here in your flat, as opposed to mine?"

Rose twisted her body so she could gaze up at Sherlock.

"I'm not talking about our physical location."

"Then I don't understand."

Rose had to remind herself that Sherlock didn't necessarily know the ins and outs of relationships, the every day struggles, and the growth and decline of such, nor the defining language that went with it.

"I'm talking about the state of our relationship," she explained. "Where we are in terms of the beginning, middle or end, how we see and feel about each other, and whether our needs are met on both a physical and emotional level. Being in a good place means we're happy with our situation."

"Are we," Sherlock asked, with no inflexion in his question.

"Aren't we?" Rose asked, her voice rising in a mild panic and her eyes growing rounder by the second.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows in response.

"I'm not easily confused, Rose. But you're measuring and assessing an abstract concept then becoming upset when I haven't thought to keep a record and chart my own observations. Was I supposed to?"

Rose couldn't help but chuckle at the seriousness of Sherlock's question.

"No, not at all. Forget I said anything."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes to slits and said, "Just so you know, I'm going to delete everything that was spoken between us after you said, _Oh, I see_."

Rose laughed lightly again, then leant forward to kiss Sherlock. He held her to him for a moment longer, giving their kiss an extra special something, before Rose lay back in his arms in once more.

* * *

Despite Sherlock's best effort, he didn't completely delete the conversation that included Rose's remark, _We're in a good place_. He turned it over in his mind during the next day or so, feeling the weight of it, and wondering where he would find a bad place in which to exist with Rose. Had they already been there? Did this place consist of the horrible weeks where Rose wouldn't even see him?

Most probably, Sherlock thought, his gut twisting with the memory of Rose continually requesting he be more patient with her, and could he give her more time to sort herself out—more time to dwell on her own dark past. It was _her_ bad place, and she had dragged him into it, unwilling, with no luggage and without a leave pass.

These thoughts alternated with the problem of how to kiss Janine at the end of the week without triggering all sorts of inappropriate physiological responses.

Monday through to Wednesday passed by in a fit of inactivity, with the exception of the operations of his mind. They were the equivalent of the London Underground at peak hour in terms of busyness, without the discomfort of smelly, unpleasant commuters assaulting his senses. Although the thought of locking lips with Magnussen's PA and having her tongue dart where it oughtn't came pretty close.

Here Sherlock was wedged between forming a necessary bond with Janine and possibly betraying the woman he loved. Despite Tonya Small's advice, Sherlock knew there was a line he shouldn't cross. Its precise location, though, was a bit hazy. He feared the day he'd glance behind him to find the line way back in the distance, well and truly leapt over.

At the start of the week, Rose had been busy working her day job, and coming home to her flat and finding random things to clean that she was sure the hired cleaners wouldn't do properly come Friday. This drove Sherlock up the (recently cleaned) wall, so much so, that he felt compelled to leave. He fully intended returning both nights in the early hours, but his daytime lack of physical exertion left him exhausted and he couldn't move from the comfort of his armchair by the fire. It was times like these that he wished he still had a drug habit.

Wednesday stretched and yawned before him, promising him nothing but tedium and all day in which to indulge in it. He went to Leinster Gardens and hung out in his empty house trying to figure out how to patch up the holes in the roof where the water dripped through. Then he went across the street to Rose's and waited patiently on her sofa for her to return home from work. He practised scoffing and tutting and designed clever remarks to direct at Rose should she start cleaning something. And when the clock ticked a little past seven o'clock, it suddenly dawned on him that Rose was working at the ASXX this evening, her first proper evening on the job offering counselling to prostitutes. And he had neglected to ask how last Saturday night went.

Probably fine, since she didn't mention it. Most likely _super_ , since she hadn't curled up underneath her blankets, telling him to go away and never return.

Sherlock had a shower with the water drumming over his head when Scanlan upstairs began to masturbate to the tune of his barking dog accompanied by the unrelenting boom of the seven o'clock news turned up to full volume. At eight o'clock, Sherlock cleaned the stove top. Twice. At nine, he was flicking through one of Rose's books, a hefty tome relating the case studies of various women who had left abusive relationships for a better life. He became quite attached to a phrase he read several times over, that the women found their new post-abuse lives "very affirming."

 _Very affirming_ , he mouthed to the room at large, then he threw the book onto the coffee table and exhaled loudly. He laced his fingers together and stared up at the ceiling. Was it his imagination or was there a definite grey hue covering the area above the sofa? Should he try cleaning it? Was it marijuana residue?

While Sherlock was imagining how he could apply a coating of bicarb to the ceiling, he promptly fell asleep. He was startled awake by a single thought: Cleaning the flat was _very affirming_ , and it put them _in a good place_. Then he mentally shook himself, waking more completely and he scoffed at such an idiotic notion.

Sherlock checked his watch; it was a well after midnight. The back of his neck prickled with unease. Rose was supposed to finish at eleven. Where was she?

And where's my phone? Through beady eyes Sherlock spied his jacket draped over an armchair across from him. So near and yet so far. And he didn't even have another phone on hand with which he could ring someone to come fetch it for him. Now that was always an amusing past-time, the number of times he had been able to pull that stunt on John Watson.

But John wasn't here now, and John wasn't contactable, not now… not… ever… ?

 _You know it won't alter anything, right, me and Mary, getting married? We'll still be doing all this_ , John had said to him while they sat on a park bench across from Wellington Barracks where Private Bainbridge was slowly bleeding on the floor of the shower stall.

 _Really?_ Sherlock thought darkly. _Where are you now, Doctor. It wasn't your relationship that changed everything. It was mine. And it wasn't_ my _narrow, misguided, intolerant attitude toward it; it was yours._

Sherlock sighed as he plodded over to his jacket. He wearily retrieved his phone then sank into the nearby armchair. He dialled Rose's number and ran an impatient hand through his curls while it rang.

"Hel-lo!" Rose said, her tone indicating that she knew Sherlock was the caller.

Sherlock's heart sank. It was now so obvious where she was and what she was doing. Any questions Sherlock wanted to direct to her— _Where are you, What are you doing, Are you coming home_ —now seemed unnecessary by the sound of that greeting alone. She was at her friend's place, toking, and she wouldn't return home because she didn't like to travel on public transport while high.

So all Sherlock could say was, "I'm at your flat."

There was silence, during which Sherlock assumed Rose was having a toke and absorbing his words.

"Oh… Sherlock," she appeared to mourn.

Sherlock dropped his head, propping it up with one hand as he leant on his knees.

"Are you... all right?" he asked.

Rose seemed to exhale deeply. He heard her say, "Oh, sorry, here," to somebody else, her friend probably, as she passed them the joint she'd most likely been holding.

"It was work, Sherlock," she said slowly. "I'm fine... really."

_Then why didn't you come home?_

"There was..." she began again when Sherlock didn't reply, "…a woman, she worked on the streets..."

Sherlock sighed heavily.

"She had a baby," Rose continued, slowly, breathily. Sherlock concluded that she was now lying on her back as she spoke to him. "The baby was born addicted to heroin."

"Rose."

"What's the world going to be like for that little fella?"

"Rose."

"He was taken... into care, of course."

Sherlock sighed again and tugged at the roots of his hair, leaving his hand there.

"Rose."

There was silence from Rose and muffled movement, then he heard her say, "No, it's only Sherlock."

"Rose?"

"I'm still here."

"Would you like me to come and get you?" Sherlock asked finally, wearily.

Sherlock heard muffled voices around Rose as she continued to breath lightly into the phone.

"Can you come and get me?" she asked in a small voice, as if the idea were her own.

"Yes, of course I can. What's the address?"

* * *

Sherlock pushed through the wrought iron gates and strode across the litter-strewn entranceway to the front door of the old abandoned college in Canning Town. Silently fuming that the agitated cabbie had refused to wait for him, he used his fist to bang on the door that greeted him with, _Private Property, Keep Out!_

He waited, straining to hear any movement inside. It was a fairly large building with high ceilings, he deduced, and therefore the sound of him banging on the door would resonate throughout. Whether or not stoners and junkies would _choose_ to answer the door was another matter entirely. Sherlock recalled hiding underneath a quilt while he and Rose sat in her armchair on the night they'd toked together. They'd been initially too paranoid to answer the door when the food he'd ordered earlier that evening had arrived and the courier had knocked on Rose's door. He mentally rolled his eyes at the memory.

Sherlock pounded on the door once more, then decided to ring Rose to let her know he was here.

Before the number began dialling, the door was opened a crack.

"Go away," a male voice said.

"I'm here for Rose," Sherlock responded calmly, slipping the phone back into his coat pocket.

"Oh," the voice said. And the figure opened the door wider. "That you, Shezza?"

Sherlock inwardly groaned. The more he had to interact with ordinary people, the more frequently he'd been affixed with stupid nicknames. _Sherl. Shezza._

"Is Rose still here?" he asked, ignoring the young man's question.

"Oh. Yeah. You can come in."

Sherlock strode into the darkened entranceway. He'd been in locations much like this one before. But the detective-genius was seeing this place through fresh eyes, and he could imagine his brother's first impressions when he had found Sherlock in a crack den all those years ago. Did Sherlock really not care about his surrounding environment at the time? Anything for that desired high. And away from the prying eyes of his big brother, no doubt.

But he was here for Rose, and Rose was nowhere near the kind of depths of despair in which the young Sherlock Holmes had found himself during a summer of a lost youth. Or had it been winter? Perhaps it'd been an entire year. Sherlock couldn't really recall.

The young man, Rose's friend—Sherlock had forgotten his name once again—accelerated toward the rear of the building, calling back, "Sorry. Gotta check me stuff. Rosie's upstairs."

Sherlock watched the stoner shuffling along as fast as his high could take him. Then he glanced upwards in mild disbelief. Sherlock had to remind himself that Rose was at her friend's place, getting high because her own supply had been depleted, thanks, in part, to Sherlock. She wasn't living rough, and she probably didn't want to pollute her flat anymore than it already was. Still... here, though. It didn't fit with the woman he knew and loved. As he ascended the staircase, he wondered how long Rose had been friends with this young man.

At the top of the stairs, he found what may have once been a lecture hall, which was now a cavern of peeling paint, half-shuttered windows clutching desperately on to make-shift tattered curtains, with the floor littered with the debris of both the forgotten human and the non-living kind. Half a dozen or more mattresses lined the walls, while an odd assortment of mismatched chairs and tables formed a new-age art installation in the middle. Candles illuminated the space here and there, throwing ghoulish shadows of furniture and huddled over, drug-infused occupants onto the marbled walls.

"Rose," Sherlock called softly, in case one of these immobile lumps of secondhand clothing belonged to his girlfriend. When nobody claimed ownership of the name, Sherlock, his heart-rate beginning to accelerate, turned and swiftly descended the staircase once more.

He made a beeline for the room at the rear of the ground floor into which he'd seen Rose's friend and sometime supplier of weed disappear.

Sherlock entered what he recognised as a large kitchen, probably for the catering students who had long since graduated. The young man stood at one of the counters, in front of him an assortment of beakers and flasks. In one glance, the Consulting Detective had taken in the empty packets of cold and flu medication, a gas cylinder, and coffee filters and strips of paper that he associated with testing pH levels of various substances.

Sherlock cleared his throat and picked up a packet that had fallen onto the floor.

"Pseudoephedrine," he read, startling the young man in the process. "It's missing its prescription sticker. Interesting."

"Tha... tha's not mine," the stoner stammered.

Sherlock shrugged disinterestedly and tossed the packet onto the counter.

"Rose isn't upstairs," he said.

"In't she?"

"Unless I've mistaken her for an unresponsive junkie, no, she isn't."

"Oh!" the young man exclaimed, his eyes widening. "She's on the second floor. She weren't with that lot. She's in my room."

Sherlock exhaled a tiny breath in relief. He made to leave, then turned and said, "You're going to have to open a window at some stage."

Sherlock climbed the two flights of stairs, retrieving a torch from his coat as he did so. He strode the length of a corridor, directing his beam of light through open door after open door. He finally found one that was shut. He softly knocked and called Rose's name while still nursing an uneasy feeling. He knocked again upon receiving no response, then jiggled the door handle. It was locked.

Sherlock stood back and to one side when he heard the shuffling clank of a bolt being pulled back. The door opened and before he could say anything, Rose snorted out a laugh.

"I thought it was Billy," she said.

"Come on, get your things," Sherlock said as gently and patiently as he could manage. "So we can go."

"Oh," Rose replied, as if the idea was new to her. "Here, hold this." She handed Sherlock a padlock with a key in it, then disappeared inside the tiny room.

Sherlock decided to join Rose inside the semi-dark room that was lit with a handful of candles arranged in different spots on the floor, rather than remain in the corridor with his torch and a padlock. Rose was taking an extraordinary amount of time. He found her struggling to put on her boots as she sat on a mattress on the floor. The contents of her bag had been upended on the mattress beside her.

Sherlock knelt down and began scooping the various objects back into Rose's bag.

"Are you all right?" he asked Rose.

"I was looking for my lighter before," she said, indicating the bag. Then she commenced giggling again as she still struggled with her boot. "Billy said…" There was more laughter, which drowned out Sherlock's huff of impatience. "He said I should light it using a candle."

 _It_ , meaning her joint, Sherlock concluded. Rose still thought her story was hilarious and glancing at Sherlock's unimpressed visage caused her to laugh even harder. She rocked backwards onto the mattress and gave up putting on her boots entirely. Sherlock finished with Rose's bag, then commenced working on tidying up Rose herself. While still kneeling beside the mattress, Sherlock lifted Rose's leg and tugged the boot on properly. Rose stopped giggling and eyed Sherlock in amused interest. He dropped that leg, and did the same with her other boot.

With her feet firmly planted on the floor, Rose inelegantly pulled herself to a sitting position. She grasped Sherlock's coat lapels and said, through slitted eyes, "Isn't this romantic?"

"No."

To Rose's credit, Sherlock thought, there was a certain charm about the room, with the warm glow of the candlelight, the still and quiet air, and the now close proximity of their bodies. But there was the stale stench of male sweat on the bedsheets and crumpled clothing scattered about, mingled with the sweet aroma of marijuana that hung thickly in the air. Couldn't she smell it?

"Let's go," Sherlock bid her, rising and pulling her up with him.

Rose snaked her hands around Sherlock's neck and embraced him tightly, sighing as she did so.

"Thank you for coming to get me," she said, her voice muffled against his coat.

"I couldn't leave you here," he said, rubbing her back half-heartedly. He just wanted to leave as quickly as possible. He knew that Rose was existing in a world thickened by cannabis. Her sluggish movements came with the territory.

"Come on, then," he said, moving out of her embrace. He looked about the room and said, "Just your bag? Did you have a coat?" Sherlock stooped to retrieve Rose's bag from the bed as Rose glanced about her in bewilderment. Sherlock spied a familiar-looking coat by the door. "This yours?" he asked, bending over to grab it.

"Mm, yes," Rose replied, but she still stood in the centre of the room, staring forlornly at the door. "Oh no," she said, worry lines etching into her brow. "I've lost the padlock."

"You handed it to me," Sherlock said, exhaling loudly.

It took another couple of minutes to leave the room, with Rose trying not very successfully, and giggling with every attempt, to blow out the candles, except one—the one she had to take to Billy so he could use it when he retired for the night.

She instructed Sherlock to use the padlock to lock the room from the outside, and to bring the key with them to hand to Billy before they left.

They found Billy where Sherlock had left him earlier—in the makeshift kitchen.

"Oh, for God's sake," Sherlock said as they entered the room. He strode over to a window, lifted the sash and slid the window upwards a little. "You need to keep this room well ventilated," he told a bewildered Billy.

"There's an exhaust fan," Billy replied, pointing to a wall on which sat a silent unit.

Sherlock grabbed an old chair, placed it against the kitchen counter and stepped up onto it so he could examine the unit properly. Below him, Rose began giggling, trying desperately to remind Sherlock about something. He ignored her, keeping his attention on the problem before him. Eventually he concluded that the switch to turn on the exhaust fan wasn't where Billy thought it was. He'd been turning on something that wasn't even wired in.

As they left, Sherlock handed Billy the key to the padlock upstairs. Rose was still intermittently chuckling about something.

Walking to the door at a speed compatible with Rose's current state, Sherlock said, "I don't want to know what you're laughing about, but do you think you could keep it contained from now on?"

Rose stopped them in front of the entrance door before Sherlock could open it. Her eyes were wide and glistening with unshed tears.

 _What now?_ he thought in exasperation.

"Don't you remember?" Rose asked.

"What?"

"You stepping up onto the bed in Lyceum Street, in the brothel. You were only in your underwear and you wanted to know why the heating outlet wasn't working above the bed. When you stepped up onto the chair in the kitchen, that's what it reminded me of—you checking out the heating almost naked."

"Yes, okay, fine. I don't really remember that, but if you say so."

Sherlock reached for the door knob when Rose said, "Well, _I_ remember it."

"That's good, Rose—"

"Because that was the first time I got the impression you cared about me. A little. You wrapped your shirt around me so I wouldn't be cold. Don't you remember that?"

Sherlock breathed out slowly. Now was the time to take things at Rose's speed. He reached for her and gently rubbed her arms.

"I was paying you money to have sex with me," he said carefully. "I don't think I really cared about you as much as you thought I did." When Rose's expression began to fall, Sherlock added, "But I care about you now, and that's all that matters."

Rose studied his eyes, before saying, "And you love me, now. Don't you?"

Her imploring gaze prompted a smile to grow on Sherlock's face.

"Yes. Yes, I do," he replied.

"And I love you, too."

Sherlock dipped his head and lightly brushed his lips against Rose's. He could feel her sigh against him. He straightened up and held out his hand to Rose as he tugged on the door.

"So let's go home," he said with a tiny smile, leading them outside.

Hand in hand they exited the Canning Town drug den in the early hours of the morning, with Sherlock hoping they'd never have to return.


	54. You Can't Afford a Drug Habit

**Chapter 54 – You Can't Afford a Drug Habit**

Sherlock stood stock still in his living room, his heart hammering in his chest, his head in the vice-like grip of a growing migraine. Images from last night of John Garvie flashed by in his mind. The MP's face had been the colour of beetroot as sweat dripped from his forehead. His nostrils had flared as he struggled to breathe, his mouth temporarily sealed by tape. The member for Rockwell South had involuntarily lain on the carpet of his constituency office, his hands bound behind him by cable ties, his legs immobilised by more tape, all courtesy of the Consulting Detective.

Yesterday morning had rapidly become a nightmare, Sherlock thought in reflection. It had all started with Rose waking up on the wrong side of the bed. Not Sherlock's side, her own side, really, but to her phone's alarm that she attempted to sleep through. Sherlock had nudged her, once, twice, three times, before she finally woke up in a dark mood. It wasn't his fault was it? She was the one who'd spent the night toking and who was on opening the entertainment store early but wouldn't call in sick.

She had muttered under her breath and swore once or twice, not impressed that Sherlock had let her sleep fully clothed. In his defence, he hadn't wanted to undress her when she was in such a stupid state after they'd returned from the Canning Town drug den in the early hours. She would've got the wrong idea, then insist that he have sex with her while she was stoned and he wasn't. Something about it being _really amazing._ After helping her remove her coat and boots, with Rose murmuring incoherently now and again, he'd let her fall asleep in the rest of her clothes.

Hanging up her coat that night, he'd found a small baggie of marijuana that she must have obtained from her stoner friend sometime during the evening. Sherlock had dutifully tossed her new stash into her underwear drawer. At the time, and with a tired brain, he was in two minds about disposing of it.

Sherlock had heard her stomping around her flat, getting ready for work while he tried in vain to keep sleeping. The kettle was slammed down into its holder, a mug wrestled out of the overhead cabinet. Then she'd reappeared in the doorway to her bedroom, insisting Sherlock at least make her tea while she showered. Somehow he was made to feel as if everything was his fault.

Twenty minutes later, she had entered the kitchen mostly dressed. Her previous bubbling over anger had reduced to a simmer, until Sherlock had remarked that she looked awful. He'd only been trying to give her the message that she may like to apply more makeup, or something. Calling him an insensitive bastard was a bit of an overreaction. Rose had disappeared into the bathroom again while Sherlock tried to make tea and pretend that this was an average morning in Leinster Gardens and that they would be laughing about this later.

It seemed that Rose was trying to make an effort too, for a moment anyway, for she returned once again (a little more makeup applied— _see? Not a useless suggestion after all_ ) and had asked, in a voice that was struggling to remain calm, "What are you doing tonight?"

"Dunno," Sherlock had casually replied with his back to her as he stirred her tea. "Might be having dinner with Janine. I can't remember if she's back tonight or Friday."

There was silence from Rose. Absolute silence. Sherlock had turned around to find she was no longer there. He realised he may have neglected to tell Rose that Janine had been texting him from Cardiff and they'd organised to have dinner. But he remembered vaguely that he had decided not to tell Rose about his plans with Janine for fear of upsetting her.

He strode into the living room to discover Rose over by the door, pulling on her coat.

"Don't you want your tea?" he asked. This was a strange déjà vu, he had thought, with the roles reversed. Sherlock could feel there was as much tension in the air as there had been the morning Rose had apparently thrown a teaspoon at the door. He looked down. Now he was the one holding the spoon.

"I'm going to be late," she muttered as she buttoned up her coat.

Sherlock strolled tentatively across the rug toward her.

"I'll see you tonight then," he said.

"What?" she snapped. Rose fixed him with a challenging glare. "Why would you? Aren't you going to end your dinner date with coffee at _her_ place, or a romantic stroll along the embankment?"

Sherlock began to feel defensive. His chest grew tight and he clenched and unclenched the teaspoon.

"No," he said, deciding upon a logical argument. "We can't go to her place. She's in between lodgings. That's why she ended up..."

He stopped abruptly, eyes widening in realisation of his almost confession. As long as Rose didn't notice, he'd be fine.

"What?" she said, zeroing in on his guilt. "Ended up where? At your place?"

Sherlock heaved a sigh, his shoulders drooping in defeat.

"It was Saturday night, and I was barely there."

But he could see from Rose's expression that she was now calculating a few things. A few things that would not hold him in a favourable light.

"So you've already had dinner with her? On Saturday night?" she said, her face hardening. "As in the weekend just gone, when you came over here in the early hours of Sunday morning?"

It was less of a nod, more of a dropping his head and waiting for the executioner's axe to fall.

"So you spent most of the night with her, and then you left my place _really early_ on Sunday to get back to her?" she said. Answers seemed unnecessary. Rose was getting pretty good at this deducing thing.

"Like I said, I was barely there."

Rose looked at him, as if she was seeing him in a whole new way.

"And then you bought me a present."

Sherlock shuffled uneasily. What did that have to do with anything?

Rose's voice was deadly calm when she asked, "And where did she sleep while you were over here fucking me and giving me random gifts from the pharmacy?"

Sherlock's mouth had run dry, but he was still able to answer, "In my bed."

Rose shifted closer to the door, rearranging her bag on her shoulder. She looked as if she was trying to choose her words carefully.

"And you rather chivalrously stayed on the sofa, I suppose?"

This conversation was not happening. Sherlock hadn't been prepared for this.

_So, lie._

_Lie, Sherlock, lie. You're a detective-genius. Lie for God's sake._

But his hesitation was rather telling, for Rose's face grew incredulous in that moment.

"Jesus Christ!" she exclaimed. "Jesus _fucking Christ!_ "

She moved toward the door, unable to decide what to do next.

"Rose."

Sherlock didn't know what he was supposed to do next either. He didn't do anything wrong!

"We didn't do anything... _I_ didn't do anything..."

"You just don't fucking get it, do you? You... you have no idea about relationships. You think everything you've learnt in ours is now a new-found skill you can use to manipulate people. Do you even know where to draw the line? What's it going to take?"

"Rose..."

"I .. I just don't get it. I still don't understand what this has got to do with John Garvie, and why you think this is the solution. Garvie is still on the fucking committee and Magnussen will want to exercise control over him." Her voice rose as she shook her head. "Why am I even _bothering_ to go to work in a shitty job with a fucking shitty salary, under Gus the fucking dipshit who plays solitaire all day long, when I could be stripping at the Rendezvous a couple of nights a week for the same money? Everyone's going to think I'm a fucking whore anyway when Magnussen decides to destroy Garvie's reputation. I may as well earn a living from it."

"Rose, for God's sake..."

"He's still there, isn't he? Garvie? I don't understand..."

"Perhaps if you stopped getting stoned for a minute, maybe your addled brain would be able to process the larger picture, instead of this narrow-minded solution to just your little problem. I'm on a case for Lady Smallwood. Magnussen has a far broader reach than just one committee member. Did your marijuana-fuelled mind forget that?"

"Fuck you, Sherlock Holmes. Why would I care about Lady fucking Smallwood? I'll be here getting stoned this weekend, and every weekend, if I like, and I don't want you anywhere near me or my drug-addled brain. Go have your fucking fancy dinners with Magnussen's fancy fucking secretary. Why don't you have a threesome with Lady fucking Smallwood while you're at it. I can see where your priorities lie."

Rose choked on her last statement, and turned to the door. Sherlock's head reeled and his cheeks had burned at Rose's remarks. He knew he deserved better than this. _He'd done nothing wrong for fuck's sake!_ He had turned his back on Rose as she struggled with the deadbolt, in two minds about walking out of the room. His heart hammered in his chest as adrenalin coursed through his veins.

With a sob, Rose had bowed her head against the door. "I can't fucking do this," she all but whispered, her voice tight with emotion.

Sherlock turned around. Rose was jiggling the key in the lock ineffectually. She sniffed and stopped when Sherlock approached. He lightly tossed the teaspoon onto the sofa to free his hands. He stood beside her and reached for the keys. Rose stepped aside, giving him room to unlock the door.

Nothing was exchanged between them as he smoothly turned the key allowing the deadbolts to retract. The air bristled with unresolved tension. Sherlock opened the door, simultaneously removing the key from the lock. He didn't make eye contact with Rose as she grabbed the set of keys from him and exited the flat. He heard her sniffing again as she made for the stairwell.

Sherlock silently closed the door after her, then exhaled deeply, resting his bowed head against the wood.

He'd allowed her to leave in tears. He'd done this. He thought he was invincible, his plan foolproof, his guilt unnecessary. She saw everything differently. He'd really hurt her. Whether or not he'd actually done anything wrong, she felt betrayed. _Had_ he forgotten about John Garvie? Should he have continued in his bid to remove Garvie from the committee? Was this a more urgent requirement than the long game of infiltration into Magnussen's empire?

Couldn't he just...

…. pause...

... for a second.

At this new thought, Sherlock had straightened up. He turned from the door, his mind honing in on the problem. Slowly crossing the rug, he had turned the problem over and examined it. He had to put aside Rose's anxiety about Janine for a moment. He had to show Rose he always had her best interests at heart.

_Refocus on Garvie. Remove him. Remove the threat to Rose. That's all it would take, surely?_

_But... how?_

Sherlock's initial surveillance and research on John Garvie, the member for Rockwell South, had revealed a hint at some underhand dealings. At the time, he knew he would have to break into the MP's constituency office in order to find any further evidence. And then Lady Elizabeth Smallwood had visited him and his plans had shifted.

Sherlock had heaved a weary sigh, suddenly feeling very, very tired, thanks to his and Rose's complicated route to return home in the early hours of the morning. The majority of their journey had been spent on a night bus, sitting apart, with Sherlock keeping an eye on Rose lest she fall into too heavy a sleep and miss their stop.

Sherlock's insides had twisted in distaste.

Rose and her toking.

Her intake of marijuana had increased considerably ever since Magnussen had paid her a visit. Obviously this whole thing was taking a toll on her. And Sherlock spending time with another woman had probably added to her already delicate state.

But it wasn't helping. Sherlock was left burdened with the whole case. He didn't quite trust himself around Tonya Small. She made him feel inadequate by provoking his feelings for Rose, then swiftly undermining him with solutions that he would've come up with himself had he not been distracted by useless emotion.

By himself, with someone to bounce ideas off—someone like John Watson—he would be able to solve the case faster. He could rely on Rose if only she didn't dumb down her intellect through flooding her brain with THC. Why couldn't she see that?

Sherlock had paced around Rose's living room, still in his pyjamas, his frustration mounting. If only his own mind hadn't been stagnating during the week with him waiting it out until he could try interrogating Janine again. He'd done _nothing_ about Garvie, he realised this now. But his mind refused to come up with a solution, and it would continually fail him if it was flooded with guilt and sorrow and anger about Rose and her determination to spend all weekend stoned.

And her refusal to see him.

Oh, for God's sake, Sherlock had thought, raking his hands through his hair. His mind was going around in circles. He couldn't focus for a second.

Sherlock's thoughts had kept returning to Rose's decision to wipe out an entire weekend when he had work to do and needed her (lucid) company. He strode angrily and decisively into her room, and pulled open her underwear drawer. Lifting out the bag of weed, Sherlock was startled to discover the two wraps of cocaine he had purchased earlier and had forgotten about.

The props.

Props on which he was going to test for purity. Props, the purchase of which was supposed to get back to Magnussen that Sherlock Holmes was an addict and therefore no threat to him.

 _I think it's about time Sherlock Holmes had a relapse, don't you?_ Tonya's voice echoed back to him. _Pretend, darling,_ she'd added when Sherlock had laughed derisively. _I'm not suggesting you actually_ use _the drugs you may purchase._

Sherlock cupped the wraps of coke in one hand, and let the other that was holding the bag of weed drop to his side. His focus remained on the one gram wraps. He'd paid £80 for each of them. A little more than the street coke that was cut to almost nothing, but not as pure as he'd get straight off the boat. He had been interested in testing it in a lab. Perhaps now...

Sherlock snapped out of his train of thought. What was he thinking? He hadn't ever foreseen a time where he would be near this kind of thing again. Not since he'd met John Watson anyway. And whatever had happened in Europe didn't count. Did it? Nothing from the two years he'd not been Sherlock Holmes counted. Sherlock had vowed to close his mind off to such things.

But here was a potential solution. An aid, if you will, to higher thinking—a richer focus with sharper edges. Sherlock inhaled deeply, realising he'd ceased breathing while he contemplated just how close to the edge of the precipice he was willing to stand.

Sherlock hadn't decided—couldn't decide right now—as he placed all of the drugs on top of Rose's dresser and retrieved his clothing from her wardrobe. As he silently and swiftly dressed, he eyed them critically. His and Rose's Drugs of Choice. Illegal substances: Class A and Class B. His and hers.

Sherlock had furrowed his brow at them, snatched them up, then hastily stowed them in his coat pockets as he finished dressing by the front door.

He'd make a decision back at Baker Street, back in the comfort of his own residence. Only there could he make an informed decision.

And now here he was, once again in his flat, over twenty-four hours later, having made that _informed decision_. Had it been for the best? What did he have to show for it?

Sherlock strode over to his living room table, and opened the file he had been perusing on and off since lunchtime... since...

Since he'd finished the last line of coke.

 _Say it,_ he told himself angrily. _Say it. Think it._

_You did it. Accept it._

_You binged on all of it._

Sherlock's head swam again. He felt for a pulse. Erratic.

Irrational thoughts. Irritability.

Migraine.

_Welcome back to the jungle, Mister Holmes. I hope it was worth it._

No. Probably not.

He looked through the file again. It was enough. It was all there. Enough to get John Garvie arrested on charges of corruption. He would just have to send this to Scotland Yard.

But he couldn't decide if it was worth it or not because he'd made the mistake of looking, of delving, of terrorising another human being for information that he really did not want to see.

Sherlock was jolted out of his thoughts about Rose and her previous occupation by the sound of swift, light high heels on the stairs.

Rose?

He wasn't ready to see her right now. He didn't know what he would say or think or do. And she would know where he'd been and who he had been speaking to just by taking one look at his pained expression. Sherlock hastily stashed Garvie's file of papers underneath another pile of papers on his table as the footsteps crossed the landing.

"Knock, knock," a voice said, accompanying the greeting with an unnecessary rap on the open door.

Sherlock turned around, his heart sinking. What was _she_ doing here?

"You're in big trouble, Sherlock Holmes," Janine said, strolling in. "And you owe me dinner, mister. You stood me up last night."

The muscles twitched in Sherlock's face. Janine Hawkins was the last person he wanted to see right now.

"I was working," he said.

"And I," she said, stopping in front of him and folding her arms across her chest, "was sitting at a table all by myself."

Sherlock continued to stare at her. He couldn't believe the fucking self-centred gall of the woman.

"Sorry. I had a case," he intoned.

"And you couldn't call or text? I couldn't even get through. I must have messaged you half a dozen times."

"I'm unavailable when I'm working."

As if on cue, Sherlock's phone began to ring from the vicinity of the table beside his armchair.

Janine raised an eyebrow.

"So are you going to answer that one?" she challenged.

Sherlock silently crossed the room. Scooping up his phone, he noted the caller id as _Rose._ His heart twinged, making his migraine sharpen its grip around his head.

"Yes?" he said tentatively into the phone, as he moved toward the kitchen.

" _They've taken my fucking stash! Those fucking low-lifes..."_

"What?" Sherlock asked incredulously, moving even faster now toward the back to his bedroom.

" _My – marijuana – Sherlock!_ " Rose yelled, as if he was deaf. "Your _fucking cleaners!_ "

"Rose, calm down," he said, closing his bedroom door.

"They came this afternoon," she explained, half-crying into the phone. Sherlock couldn't believe this was actually Rose speaking. "And the bag was here yesterday morning... in my drawer."

"Rose."

"So _ring them! And tell them they didn't even clean the fucking ceiling!_ "

"Rose. Just stop speaking for a minute."

Sherlock pressed his fingers against his temples, to counter the incessant throbbing.

"It wasn't the cleaners," he added when Rose finally ceased talking and yelling. "It was me. I removed your stash."

"What?"

"I took it, yesterday morning, after you'd left for work."

"What? _Are you fucking kidding me_?"

Sherlock closed his eyes, willing the images of Rose and John Garvie to go away. He suddenly felt nauseated.

"I'll bring it back," he said resignedly. "Just stop yelling."

Rose ended the call and Sherlock sank down onto his bed. He tossed his phone aside and hung his head hoping the feeling of nausea would pass.

_Rose and Garvie._

It didn't.

_Oh, God._

How would he set about deleting the photos from his Mind Palace? He may have destroyed the digital copies for all time, but the etchings on his memory banks were going to stay there forever.

_How could she... how could she do those things?_

_For money,_ Sherlock thought in disgust. _For money. It always comes back to money._

Sherlock's limbs felt like lead, but his breath came in short bursts. He couldn't tell if these sensations were due to emotional devastation or a comedown from a very low quality batch of cocaine. He knew a lot about the latter, not so much of the former.

A tap at the door interrupted his thoughts.

"Sherl?"

_Oh fuck me._

" _Go away!"_ he snapped.

For a woman who supposedly _took no for an answer_ , she certainly could not take a hint. The door opened a crack.

"Sherl, are you all right?" she asked.

"No, I'm fucking not," he rasped.

It seemed emotional devastation was a direct invitation to Magnussen's harlot to interfere. She opened the door wider and stood on the threshold.

"Do you want a sympathetic ear?"

Sherlock slowly looked up at her. Clearly the woman was of another species to the regular ones. Wasn't she put off by his blunt arseholeness?

His head throbbed, his bones ached, his nose was about to run. His _real_ girlfriend had been photographed using a camera phone with her mouth around some parliamentarian's cock, taken from the aforementioned parliamentarian's point of view, and his _fake_ girlfriend was offering a sympathetic ear.

Sherlock stood up. "I'm sorry about dinner," he said, most unapologetically. "I promise to make it up to you." He turned and grabbed his phone from the bed. "I was undercover, and not in any position to phone or text."

He had kept his expression neutral, but it seemed to do the trick on Janine.

"Well, I might forgive you," she said.

"I really have to go," Sherlock responded, before Janine could make any more sexual allusions to _something._ He really wasn't in the mood for game-playing.

He walked toward her and was relieved that she moved from the doorway, allowing him to pass.

"How about Saturday night?" she asked as she followed him through the kitchen.

On any other day, Sherlock would've smiled inwardly at the tiny sound of desperateness in her tone. He was inadvertently playing hard to get, and it was working wonders on Magnussen's PA.

"I'll call you," he said, rounding the corner into the living area. Pulling on his coat, he lightly touched a hand to his chest, feeling the contents of the internal pocket. Rose's bag of marijuana was still there. His own D.o.C though, had all been insufflated hours ago.

He felt a heavy weight on his shoulders at the thought of what he'd indulged in over the last day or so, and he subconsciously placed a hand in his trouser pocket where a torn off piece of notepaper sat. _A list,_ should his brother ever come calling. Although this list held just one item: _cocaine._

"Make yourself at home. Have a cup of tea," he said to Janine, giving her what he assumed was a warm smile.

"Thanks, but I have to get back to work," she said resignedly.

"Okay, fine," Sherlock said, and he gestured toward the door, indicating that she should precede him. "I'd share a cab with you," he said as Janine crossed the threshold in front of him, "but I'm going in the opposite direction."

"Oh, that's fine," she called back as they descended the staircase. "I'll catch the tube."

Dear Lord, she was being accommodating this afternoon, Sherlock thought. If he had his wits about him, he could've sat her down and commenced the interrogation, she was that compliant. Unfortunately, he had his torn heart to stitch back up and a relationship to piece together. Surely he had his priorities right this time.

Sherlock strode to the kerb and gave Janine a parting—and almost dismissive—wave before he turned his attention to the black cab that was further along the street. This departure was in stark contrast to the cozy kisses Janine Hawkins had been trying to deliver of late. He really was an arsehole. He hoped she could see that, because it would come as a nice surprise when he supposedly softened for her later. Sherlock's only regret was that reverting back to his usual self had come at the expense of his sobriety and his relationship.

When Sherlock entered Rose's flat, he found her huddled up on her sofa, staring at the silent but flickering images on her telly. She turned her tear-stained face toward him. He didn't know what to think. This vision of Rose, combined with her screaming at him yesterday morning and on the phone this afternoon clearly showed a woman who was descending into her own personal hell. Had he been pulled along for the ride?

She stared at him indifferently, so Sherlock reached into his coat pocket, pulled out the bag of marijuana and wordlessly tossed it onto the coffee table in front of her. Part of him was curious as to what she would do with it, the other part had him unsure if he was even welcome to approach her.

Rose looked down at the bag, then up at Sherlock. Then she pointed to the ceiling above her and said, "It's fucking filthy."

Sherlock set about shedding his coat, believing it was safe to do so. His heart sank when Rose reached for the bag.

"I'll ring them," he said, turning around to hang his coat on the hook by the door.

"Don't bother," Rose said, rising from the sofa with her weed in hand.

"No, I will," he said, moving toward her. "I paid them, and they assured me they'd do a thorough clean. I'll insist they come back and finish."

"Whatever," Rose said, sighing as she headed for the kitchen.

Sherlock's heart tripped over itself. So she was going to toke here and now.

"Rose," he said, following her into the kitchen. "Can we talk first, before you… ah… use that."

Rose stopped at the kitchen counter and pulled open a drawer. Retrieving a packet of Rizla papers and the Golden Virginia tobacco, she said, "I'm going to smoke outside if you want to talk out there." She turned around to face him. "I did say I didn't want you here this weekend if you were going to ruin my sessions."

She made to turn back again before Sherlock gently reached for her, preventing her from doing so.

"No. I want to talk before you get stoned."

Rose frowned and looked up at him, then her eyes narrowed further as if she was examining him.

"My God, you look like crap, and I'm not just saying that to pay you back for your comment to me yesterday. You really do look... wasted, or something. What have you been doing?"

"That's... why I want to talk to you."

Rose studied Sherlock's eyes for a second before her face brightened in realisation.

"You did coke!" she exclaimed, almost gleefully, to Sherlock's surprise. "It wasn't just my weed you took out of my drawer. Oh, Sherlock!"

To Sherlock's bewilderment, Rose began laughing. He watched her for a moment, her eyes watering as she turned from him. Her shoulders shook as she continued laughing and leaning on the counter.

"Are you already stoned?" Sherlock asked.

Rose continued having her own private moment of mirth, her laughter rising and falling, punctuated by the odd snort or two. She took a few seconds to recompose herself before she faced him once more, wiping the tears from her eyes.

"No, I'm not," she replied. "I just..." She shook her head in disbelief. "I can't imagine you doing lines. I mean, I know you've toked with me, and you once said you used cocaine, but I just never imagined..."

Sherlock stalked away from her and spun around when he ran out of floor space.

"Aren't you angry with me?" he asked, demanded even.

Rose leant against the counter and tilted her head to one side.

"Why would I be angry with you?"

Sherlock regarded Rose for a moment. There was still a hint of amusement gracing her features.

"Because everyone..." He stalled, then waved a flippant hand toward Rose. Turning from her he paced again, and ran a hand through his hair. "Everyone always gets angry when I..."

He kept moving. He _had_ to keep moving. He had to outrun his brain.

"You're extremely agitated," Rose remarked, her voice growing serious. "Are you still high, or are you crashing?"

Sherlock stopped in his tracks.

"I need to tell you something," he said, stalking back toward Rose.

"I thought you just did."

He stopped in front of her, his chest heaving. Visions of sex acts involving John Garvie and Rose danced in his head. He shook it lightly, briefly closing his eyes.

"Look, if you're crashing," Rose said gently, "you probably need food. And sleep. Have you eaten? You have to kickstart your digestive system. And I bet you haven't slept at all."

"Rose," Sherlock said, his voice pained as he closed the gap between them. He just wanted to hold her... or be held _by_ her and breathe in all of the happy memories again to block out this horror.

But he didn't embrace her. He leant one arm heavily on the counter beside her as he bowed his head. Rose lifted a hand to his arm in comfort.

"I paid a visit to John Garvie last night."

The hand she was running down his arm froze in place. Sherlock met her gaze. Her eyes were wide and glazed, her lips parted. She blinked a couple of times then swallowed.

"What?" she asked unnecessarily.

Sherlock pushed off from the counter and strode away from her. He spun around then stopped, facing her with one hand lightly on his hip and the other raking his hair. His mind wasn't coping with this. He actually felt stifled in this tiny flat which appeared to be getting smaller by the second.

"I took the coke," Sherlock said, gesturing widely toward Rose's bedroom. "I went home, I set it on the table and stared at it for several hours until it grew dark." Sherlock could feel his throat constricting. He was finding it difficult to breathe, to speak. "I set my mind on a course of action," he continued, then he swallowed as if that would open his oesophagus. "And I didn't stop until this morning."

Rose had been watching him intently. She finally left the counter and walked over to him. Lightly grasping his arm she said, "Come and sit down. I'll get you something to eat."

Sherlock allowed Rose to lead him to the dining table. He pulled out a chair and sank into it. He said nothing until Rose joined him with a loaf of bread and a glass of white wine. She started lathering butter onto a slice of bread. Sherlock watched as if this was the most important slice of bread in existence.

"Eat," she said, plopping the buttie down in front of him. "Drink," she added, pushing the wine glass over.

She watched him like a prison warden looking for signs of dissension. Sherlock bit into one corner of the bread, chewed it slowly and then gulped down a third of the glass of wine. He set the glass back down and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

"I waited outside his office in Rockwell South," he continued, feeling marginally better. A warmth spread through him as the alcohol hit his stomach before the bread did. "His employees usually leave in a predictable pattern. I've watched the office before. The last to leave is a jogger. She sprints away from the door and doesn't even check to see if it's closed properly before she's already around the corner. I simply caught the door before it shut. Only Garvie remained inside."

Rose leant back in her chair and crossed her arms in front of her.

"And you'd taken a hit of coke by then?"

Sherlock pulled at the buttie, until a piece came away. He popped it into his mouth and chewed thoughtfully.

"Yes," he said finally after swallowing his morsel. "I did a couple of lines at home, then I used the rest of the wrap over the course of the evening. While I was... dealing with Garvie."

"In his office?"

"Yes."

Rose studied him in silence as he picked at the bread. Then he drained the rest of the wine, pushed the glass back toward Rose and said, "More." She looked at the empty glass then back up at him. "Please," he added.

"Let's just take it easy for a moment," she said.

Sherlock sighed and continued picking the bread apart without eating any more.

"I convinced him to resign from the committee. It should be on the website in the next day or two."

Rose straightened up a little in her seat.

"How did you convince him to do that?"

Sherlock met her gaze. He stopped deconstructing the bread.

"I persuaded him."

"How?"

"By using the knowledge I had of him living out his sexual fantasies involving a prostitute dressed as a school girl."

Rose looked away, then abruptly stood up. She grabbed the wine glass and walked back to the kitchen with it. Sherlock pushed the torn up pieces of bread away from him. He bowed his head, cradling it in his hands as he used his fingers to knead his temples. Rose returned with the glass full of wine. Her lips were wet as if she'd already had a sip herself.

"Do you have a headache?" she asked, depositing the wine glass in front of Sherlock.

"Yes."

Rose disappeared into the bathroom this time and returned with three paracetamol tablets.

"They won't even touch the sides," Sherlock said, lifting his head.

"Just take them," Rose said, exhaling in exasperation.

Sherlock popped them into his mouth, then washed them down with half a glass of the wine. Rose reached over and took the glass from him, then promptly drained the rest herself.

"Are you sure you don't want to toke with me?" she asked.

Sherlock smiled weakly.

"I'm sure."

"Because I'm in no hurry to hear the rest of this story."

"I'm in no hurry to tell it."

Rose gave him a tiny smile in return. She reached over and carded her fingers through Sherlock's hair. He closed his eyes briefly, enjoying her loving caress, the scraping of her fingernails against his skull and the steady tugging on his hair follicles. To his disappointment, Rose dropped her hand. She leant over Sherlock and kissed his forehead. Picking up the empty wine glass, she said, "So let's get drunk."


	55. I'm Not an Addict; I'm a User

Rose left the dining table for the kitchen, wine glass in hand. Her heart beat dully in her chest. This wasn't how she'd wanted to spend her Friday evening after the week she'd had. She imagined she'd spend it alone, dressed comfortably in her strappy, soft summer dress, and she'd loll about on her sofa watching psychological thrillers and eating chocolate coated peanuts. She'd finish off with her weed and a box of cereal. She'd been hoping Sherlock would show up sometime over the weekend, apologetic and cuddly, indulging her every need. But not right now, not tonight. Not looking the way he did—far worse than how she felt.

Rose knew what she was doing to herself, but her self-diagnosis had little effect on her determination to wipe herself out. Control of her life had been wrenched from her. Her fate rested in the _wet hands_ of a disgusting, sleaze of a man, all because once upon a time she'd veered off the well-trodden wholesome path of sparkling light into the dark forest of sexual exploitation to fulfill the fantasies of another vile, disgusting man who had a school girl fetish.

Tonya Small would have a lot to say about that. Tonya _did_ have a lot to say about that—words Rose usually strived to ignore. Earlier in the year, for instance, Tonya's suggestion was for Rose to break up with Sherlock.

 _He's your last connection to your exploited past_ _, darling_ _,_ the Clarence House Cannibal had advised Rose during one of their many walks. _You will only fully move on and heal when that connection is severed_.

 _What a load of rubbish_ , Rose had thought at the time. _Nobody ever truly heals_.

She bowed her head and heaved a sigh, taking a moment to gather her thoughts. Then reaching up to her overhead cabinet, Rose retrieved a second wine glass. Her intention was for her and Sherlock to finish the bottle of wine between them, and maybe open a second. She hoped this would help Sherlock relax, perhaps take to her sofa and watch telly while Rose donned her coat, went outside and toked on her balcony. And as a final gesture of contrition on his part, he'd make love to her.

At least that was her amended plans for the evening. Tomorrow, when she was working her Saturday shift at the home entertainment store, the answer to the inevitable question, _What did you do last night,_ would be, _Oh I had a quiet night in, drinking wine with my boyfriend._

In reality, she was slowly numbing herself with drugs and booze, while her boyfriend was attempting to get over his cocaine-binge hangover after doing _God only knew what_ to Rose's aforementioned vile, disgusting former client. Rose didn't want to know the details of Sherlock's visit to John Garvie, at least not while she was sober. What had Sherlock planned to do last night to Garvie that had required him to be high on coke first?

If Sherlock needed more from her, other than substances to help bring him down tonight, then she had nothing to offer. Her cup was well and truly empty. She wanted to curl up in _his_ arms, to feel his strength and support. She didn't want him like this, a broken, half version of himself. Was she being selfish?

Rose grabbed the neck of the wine bottle and took it and the two glasses back to the dining table. She expected to find Sherlock still sitting there, his head bowed, massaging his headache. Instead, he was restlessly pacing the living room. He had removed his jacket and had slung it over the back of an armchair.

Obviously he was still operating on high levels of adrenalin, Rose guessed. She'd often listened to Billy discussing the various effects each drug had on a person when they were coming down, or crashing, the next day at his place. Food for the stimulant users, he'd always advised her. Their appetites had been suppressed and they had to force themselves to eat. Only later would their appetites turn ravenous. She'd listened in a mixture of mild curiosity and anxiety when Billy explained that some stimulant users were handy to have around when he needed to break into a place because of their high levels of adrenalin. That was also one of the reasons Billy insisted that Rose toke in his locked bedroom.

"Summa them are horny as hell, Rosie. Don't want you layin' about passed out down 'ere."

Rose placed the wine and the stemware onto the table then set about pouring each glass. Sherlock stopped in his tracks. She could feel his eyes boring into her.

"No, Rose," he said eventually.

"What?" she asked, placing the bottle back down onto the table. Rose remained standing as she lifted a glass to her lips.

"I don't want anything."

As Sherlock approached her, Rose gulped down a mouthful of wine.

"Suit yourself," she said as he stopped in front of her. "But you do need something to relax. And you need sleep, Sherlock."

"I need you..." he said, the intensity of his gaze causing Rose's heart to falter. He reached for her glass, which she gave up easily. "...without any of this." He placed it back onto the table. "Or that," he added, waving a hand in the direction of the kitchen where her marijuana lay waiting. He threaded the fingers on one hand through hers. His voice crackled a little when he said, "I need your company. Not anyone else's. Yours." Rose felt a weight descend on her, and her eyes pricked with tears. "And the more you have of that, the further you drift away from me."

The desperate edge to his voice rang heavy on Rose's heart.

"You can't… have... me," she heard herself saying, her voice strange and distant. "I don't want to be... here."

A flicker of hurt crossed Sherlock's features before he set his jaw firmly.

He reached for her arm and held her lightly. His hand on her bare flesh cooled her. Standing over her, Sherlock asked, through narrow eyes, "Do you have any idea what I went through for you last night?"

A sense of dread rippled through Rose. The surrounding air pressed in on her. She didn't want to know. She tore free from Sherlock's grip and backed away.

Sherlock wasn't ever supposed to exist in the same room as John Garvie. He couldn't breathe the same air as that man. To do so, would give life to her nightmare. Something that was a distant memory was being brought into sharp focus once more, and turned into flesh, as Charles Augustus Magnussen had done the night he'd visited her.

Rose made to put distance between her and Sherlock. She turned from him and headed for the bathroom, but she was abruptly stopped by a firm hold on her wrist. Sherlock pulled her around, trapping her against the wall by the kitchen. Rose's chest heaved as she fought for her next breath. Sherlock had released her wrist, but he blocked her from moving away. He didn't touch her, but leant on the wall, his mouth hovering over hers, his steady breath clashing with her ragged, shallow one.

He said nothing, as if he was calculating something. All Rose could hear was her own breathing as the silence around them stilled the air and kept it from igniting.

In this close proximity, Rose examined the sharp angles and shadows on Sherlock's face. It was as if it had been carved from marble. She avoided his gaze, instead, dropping her eyes to the soft curves of his mouth in contrast.

She knew how his mouth would feel on hers, how pliant and warm those lips could be. The taste of him, the thrill of a darting tongue, the hunger in his explorations—the thought of all these heated the blood that raced beneath her skin.

Rose tilted her chin, parting her lips as her eyes hooded over. She strained forward; he resisted, maintaining the distance between them. Desire clouded her thoughts. Every nerve-ending screamed to be touched by this man.

She watched as Sherlock dropped his gaze by degree, as if his eyes were caressing every bare inch of skin from her jawline, along her neck, to the curve exposed by the thin dress strap that had fallen from her shoulder. Could he detect arousal in every one of her pores? Rose wondered.

Sherlock straightened a little and dropped the hand that had supported him against the wall. Rose felt a tickle against the back of her thigh, underneath her dress as Sherlock lightly skimmed her skin with his fingertips. Higher they rose, his soft touch following the curve of her buttock until his fingers slipped underneath her lace thong.

Rose stopped breathing. His fingers blazed a trail wherever they touched. Sherlock's gaze returned to her eyes. His own were curious now, and he tilted his head a little, bringing his lips closer to hers, but still not quite touching. His fingers now skimmed around her hip, teasing her in their luxurious, but intimate, navigation. Rose clutched the front of his shirt, willing both mouth and fingers to reach their desired destinations. This moment of anticipation burned through her like no experience she could ever recall.

When his fingers finally pressed against her, her breath was forcefully expelled from her lungs. It was then that his mouth closed over hers, as if he also needed that moment to connect fully. His hand and tongue worked in perfect synchronicity, their dexterity eliciting soft moans from Rose against Sherlock's mouth. She could taste him behind the sweetness of the wine they'd shared as his tongue danced with hers.

She returned his kiss in equal measures. Desired continued to drizzle through her as Sherlock used his clever fingers and tongue against her.

Sherlock suddenly broke from her and reached down with his free hand to grasp one of Rose's legs behind her knee, yanking it upwards, so she could curl her leg around him.

His fingers plunged inside and Rose dropped her head back against the wall and gasped his name in shock. The urgency built inside her with every stroke and she needed to taste him again. But Sherlock had slipped her other strap from her shoulder, tugging at her dress while his mouth skimmed the side of her throat, nipping and sucking. Rose clutched desperately at his shirt, then brought her hands up to dive her fingers into his hair. She closed her eyes, arching against his hand as his mouth sought a path to her breasts. Her body throbbed and ached, her excitement mounting.

Sherlock teased her with light flicks of his tongue, and Rose struggled to hold on to anything, almost coming completely undone. His fingers left her, and before she could feel bereft in their absence, Sherlock was already inside her. Just when he had managed to free himself, she had no idea. Her response was to gasp in shocked delight. Finally his breathing matched hers and came in short, sharp bursts.

Rose gloried in the feel of him, the strength of his hold, the steady rhythm of his love-making. Sherlock hoisted her higher still, until both her legs were wrapped around him and the pressure became unbearable. He drove her with a tirelesss energy, pressing her hard against the wall. Her eyes moistened as she teetered on the brink, as if this were the end, the end of everything. Before panic could take hold, her orgasm tore through her and she was swept along by a torrent of pleasurable pulsating sensations.

Sherlock was not far behind. He had bowed his head against the wall as his arms supported Rose's weight. As he continued to rock into her, he buried his face in her neck, as he had done last Saturday night. His silence, apart from his ragged breathing, disturbed Rose. She thought he could feel it too—a loss of something that had once been so fresh and innocent that had somehow become degraded and soured.

When he shuddered and stiffened, his body erupting with his own climax, his grip around Rose tightened. She breathlessly clung to him, her body shimmering with the scent and taste of him. After Sherlock stilled, they remained entwined, holding each other for support, chests heaving and bodies tingling.

Carefully and tenderly, Sherlock lowered Rose to the floor. To her surprise, he cupped her face in his hands and pressed a soft kiss to her lips, as if greeting her for the first time that evening. As he looked away, he winced a little, closing his eyes with a tiny shake of his head.

"Does your headache feel worse?" Rose asked, her voice sounding odd as it pierced the silence.

"Mm," Sherlock responded, relinquishing his hold on her. "I think I'll—"

His words were cut short by three sharp knocks on the door. Sherlock looked toward the entrance then brought his hands around to the front of his trousers to tuck himself in.

"Expecting someone?" he asked as Rose struggled to rearrange her own underwear that had become twisted underneath her dress.

"Oh. Fucking hell. Sorry. Just Billy."

"Billy?"

She smoothed her dress around her hips. _Nice timing, Billy._

"Yeah. I…" She drew in steadying breath, full aware her cheeks were flushed and her hair in disarray. "I didn't really think you'd come back with my… ah… stuff, so I rang Billy to bring me some more. He won't be staying. Just… dropping it off."

Sherlock frowned at her in disapproval, then ran an expert eye over her, from head to toe.

"Why don't you go…" He paused, blinking a couple of times as if only just realising what they had been doing. "Um… clean yourself up... a bit. I'll get the door."

Rose turned to leave, grateful for the suggestion when Sherlock said, "Oh, Rose." He shifted uncomfortably then cleared his throat. "You might want to... um... cover yourself up with your dressing gown." He waved a hand vaguely in the direction of her chest.

Rose's hand immediately went to her throat as she headed for the bathroom. Her reflection in the mirror revealed not one but four red welts on her skin, leading from the crook of her neck toward her breasts, like a dot-to-dot landscape of lust. They'd be a nice reddish purple by tomorrow morning. Just in time for work.

Rose sighed and briefly closed her eyes. She barely remembered Sherlock making those. He had been...

_What?_

Not _violent._ Definitely not.

Not even rough.

Passionate? Enthusiastic?

Those words sounded far too positive and upbeat. Sherlock had been far from _happy_ during their sexual encounter. Not even vaguely _pleased._

 _Driven_ , she finally decided.

As she sat on the toilet and held her head in her hands, she felt the same weight of despair descend on her. She had said to him that she didn't want to be _here._ She had meant in this present state of mind. And now Billy was bringing her a second lot of cannabis. Perfect for relocating and not _being here_ for the entire weekend. If only Sherlock would toke with her. It would do him the world of good; she was sure of it.

When she returned to the living area, wrapped in her dressing gown, she heard the end of a question that Sherlock was posing to Billy.

"…anything other than cooking up meth?"

Billy's eyes widened and his mouth opened and closed uselessly.

"I… er…" he said, before he spied Rose. "Oh, hey, Rosie."

Sherlock turned to her as well, as if he hadn't realised she had joined them. He held a plastic bag of cannabis by his side, which she presumed was for her from Billy.

"Hi, Billy."

She hastened to give her friend a hug, to which he responded, "All right, Rosie?"

"Thanks for coming round," Rose replied. "I'll bring some food over tomorrow after work, yeah?"

"And don't forget them Pringles," Billy said, as he headed for the door. "All right, Shezza?"

Sherlock gave the stoner a vague nod in response, then made to close the door.

"Oh. Bill-y," the detective said uncertainly before the door closed fully. Sherlock turned to Rose and held out the bag of cannabis.

Rose regarded him in silence. It wasn't too hard to figure out what he was indicating here. Billy was standing outside, waiting for Sherlock to say something, while Sherlock was stalling and waiting for Rose to leave before he could talk to her drug supplier in confidence.

Rose made a point of narrowing her eyes at Sherlock to let him know that she knew he was up to something. She snatched the bag from him and left the living room for the kitchen. In the next room she could hear Sherlock's deep baritone, but not what was spoken.

She grabbed the second bag of marijuana from the counter and stared at the packet of Rizla papers for a moment.

 _This isn't fair,_ she thought. Just what was Sherlock planning? Why was he interested in what else Billy cooked in his kitchen? Was Sherlock keen on some other drug apart from coke? So why couldn't _she_ get stoned on _her stash_?

She heard the deadbolts snap back into place, so she took both baggies and left the kitchen. From the corner of her eye she saw Sherlock crossing the living room, but she didn't stop until she reached her bedroom. Annoyed with herself and her own indecision, she angrily pulled open her underwear drawer and dropped the bags of weed inside. Having Sherlock around and moody would put a damper on her high, she had concluded.

She left the bedroom and was surprised to find Sherlock in neither the kitchen nor the living room. She was stunned when she heard him throwing up in the bathroom. She bowed her head and ran her fingers through her hair, listening for a few seconds. He wasn't having a good time of it. But then again, who did?

Rose strode into the kitchen and retrieved a glass tumbler from the cupboard. She half-filled it with water then headed to the bathroom where she found the door ajar. She stood outside for a moment until she heard the toilet flushing.

She pushed open the door and asked, "Are you okay?"

Sherlock was standing in front of the basin with the tap running. He bent over and splashed water onto his face, then spat into the sink.

"I will be," he rasped.

He washed his face again while Rose looked on, patiently waiting with the glass of water. Sherlock turned the tap off, then looked over to her as he wiped a hand towel over his face. His eyes were glassy and red-rimmed, his face flushed.

"Migraine," he said by way of explanation, dumping the towel into the sink. He accepted the water when Rose held it out to him. He gulped it down then handed her the glass back. "Thank you," he said, his mouth forming an uneasy smile. "I'm being reminded of the glorious benefits of poor quality cocaine."

"Poor quality?" Rose repeated. "Not just cocaine in general?"

Sherlock turned to the sink again. He busied himself with arranging the hand towel back onto its rail as he spoke.

"When I used to buy cocaine, I would purchase two wraps. One for my… session, and one for the craving, hours later."

"So you've got a craving now?" Rose asked, furrowing her brow. "You're going to use the second lot?"

Sherlock faced Rose once more, lightly placing his hands on his hips as he spoke.

"I already have. This morning." He dropped his gaze and began unbuttoning his shirt cuffs. "I would buy two wraps at a time, but it didn't mean I would stop there. I'd go out and buy two more. I could do that all week, thinking each pair would be the last. But I wanted to avoid crashing at all costs."

"So what are you going to do?"

"Nothing," Sherlock replied. He turned from her and faced the mirror above the sink as he began unfastening his shirt buttons. "That session served a purpose. I'm done."

Rose regarded Sherlock's profile for a moment, unsure how she felt about Sherlock's seemingly casual indifference to his drug usage and his confidence that he wouldn't use again.

"What did you ask Billy?"

Sherlock released the final button and shrugged the shirt from his shoulders.

Dropping the item to the floor, he said, "I'm going to have a shower."

Sherlock turned his back to Rose and unhooked his trousers. She slowly shook her head and left the bathroom.

Rose not-so-carefully deposited the glass in the kitchen sink then busied herself clearing the table of the wine, bread and butter, and putting the tobacco and Rizla papers into the kitchen drawer. All the while, she silently fumed.

She leaned heavily onto the counter-top and longed to take that first drag from a badly rolled joint and blissfully drift away.

Were they going to continue the evening moving around each other like vague acquaintances? They'd fucked like a couple who'd hooked up in a nightclub and had sought some inner city back alley in which to engage in urgent, anonymous sex. Is that what Sherlock thought? Is that why he gave her a loving, tender kiss afterwards—to counter their emotionless act?

Her heart twinged at the thought of the kiss and the man who had delivered it. She loved him, the stupid bastard. But why couldn't she support him in this?

Because she didn't know what _this_ was. He was dating another woman—setting up one cozy dinner rendezvous after another, inviting her around for coffee at his place, sending flirty emails and having her _sleep over_. And then when Rose had pointed out he'd done nothing about Garvie, Sherlock had done _something_ , while high on coke!

Rose's eyes stung and she blinked in vain.

Of course she was _jealous_ of Janine _,_ and _fearful_ about Garvie.

Rose slowly shook her head about the other woman.

Coffee and dinner? In public? When would she and Sherlock ever have that kind of indulgent lifestyle together?

 _Never_!

Because he would _always_ be Sherlock Holmes, the famous Consulting Detective who had returned from the dead, and she, Rosemarie Sulford, would _always_ be an ex-prostitute, and therefore a potential human headline.

She was jealous of a _fucking fake girlfriend_.

"Rose?"

Rose let out an audible gasp. She quickly wiped her eyes, and said, "What?" without turning around.

"Would you…" Rose heard him slowly move into the kitchen. His voice sounded cautious and tentative. "Would you like to have a shower with me?"

"Just give me a minute," she said, her voice rough and thick.

Sherlock came up behind her, his bare arms encircling her. He rested his chin on top of her head. Her body felt warmed by his, but the tears flowed freely now. Rose turned around in his arms and hugged his naked torso. Evidently he didn't get very far with his shower preparations, as he was still in trousers. Rose hiccuped a sob as Sherlock drew her in tightly. She realised that the one minute he was giving her would be a minute spent in his loving embrace.


	56. I Know What Kind of Man You Are

Friday night was progressing without any further fuss or out of character shenanigans, Sherlock was finding, to his relief. He had held Rose firmly, and kissed the top of her head. It didn't take a detective-genius to deduce why she was upset. Clearly _everything_ about Sherlock's actions over the last couple of weeks bothered her. He didn't want to talk any more, analysing this and that. His head was about to split in two and he really wanted to curl up in bed around her and sleep for all eternity. If only his mind would quiet.

"Come on," he'd said softly after a fashion. "The shower's already running."

He led her to the shower and to his delight, they lathered and shampooed each other's hair. This was fast becoming one of those wonderful routines to add to those he and Rose had already created together.

Rose left him in the shower for a lot longer. Obviously she could tell that the pattering of water on his head soothed his skull.

"I'll pop out and get something," she said as she towel-dried herself. "You still need to eat."

Sherlock could only stomach a small serving of hot chips from the kebab shop on the corner. Thankfully, he managed to keep that lot down, as well as the second dose of paracetamol given to him by Rose. At Rose's insistence, they settled down onto the sofa, Sherlock with his head in Rose's lap, atop a cushion, and Rose with her legs stretched out on the coffee table. While she watched a psychological thriller, and he largely ignored it, Rose carded her fingers through Sherlock's hair. She raked her fingernails against his scalp, tugged at the roots, and generally massaged his throbbing head all over. His headache had eased back into a dull ache thanks to Rose's attention. Sherlock didn't know at what point he'd fallen asleep, but it couldn't have been too far into the movie.

The next thing he knew, he had woken up on the sofa, all alone, to a darkened flat. His headache had returned with a vengeance. Sherlock padded into the kitchen, gulped down more paracetamol, then joined Rose in bed. It was four o'clock in the morning, and he fell back to sleep in an instant.

Light kisses rained his face, gently stirring him from a deep slumber. The perfume and deodorant that reached his nostrils eventually told him that Rose was awake and about to leave for work. Sherlock climbed out of his half sleep as quickly as he could.

"Oh, no, don't wake up," Rose whispered.

"Too late," he murmured.

"Sorry."

Sherlock frowned and turned to look at the clock on the bedside table through narrow eyes. It was just after seven. He tutted.

"You're on opening the shop."

"Yes," Rose replied. She reached out and ran her fingers through Sherlock's fringe. He briefly closed his eyes again. "I didn't want to wake you from your sleep last night," she told him. "You didn't even stir when I moved out from under you." Sherlock hummed agreeably. "How's your head?" she asked softly.

"Awful."

"I'll get you more tablets, but I'll make you a couple of slices of toast before I leave."

Rose withdrew her hand and leant away from him. Sherlock snapped his eyes open at the absence of her soothing caress, then winced because of the action.

"No, Rose, just wait, wait, wait for a second."

She remained where she was, sitting by his side, then she lightly rubbed her thumb across his furrowed brow.

"What can I get you?" she asked.

Sherlock was revelling in Rose's affectionate tone and loving gestures. He reached up and held her hand against his temple.

"I want you to take the day off and spend it at home, nursing me back to health."

Rose chuckled lightly. The sound was like music to his ears.

"No, sorry."

Sherlock gave her a lopsided smile. "It was worth a try," he said, dropping his hand.

"So, I'll get you that toast."

"No. Wait—just a minute."

His tone was less jovial now. Rose didn't respond, but the softness immediately left her face.

Sherlock hoisted himself up to the bedhead, his brow furrowed against the throbbing of his persistent headache.

"Rose," he said, reaching for her hand. She sighed. _Not_ music to his ears. "I… um…" he began. Not a good start. Rose continued to scrutinise him in silence. "I'm so close to getting Janine to open up about working for Magnussen…" He paused on noticing the thinning of Rose's lips. Well, there was no going back now. "And all it would take is one more dinner. In fact I'm sure of it." Rose sighed through her nostrils. Sherlock heard it. She wasn't being very discreet about her displeasure. "And… since I stood her up the other night, because of… you know…" Rose's eyes narrowed even further. Sherlock turned his attention to the hand he held. He ran his thumb over the smooth skin there. "… I should probably take her out tonight."

Rose continued to study him as if waiting for additional information. When it was evident that Sherlock wasn't going to add anything, she sighed, "Okay."

Her expression didn't change, but she straightened up, as if to leave.

"I'll get your—"

"Rose. We won't have coffee afterwards. I'll come over here after dinner. "

Her gaze no longer met Sherlock's.

"Do what you need to do."

She stood up and left the room before Sherlock could say anything else.

Sherlock slowly sank into the covers. The pounding in his head threatened to bring with it waves of nausea. He had wanted to follow Rose out into the kitchen, and on a normal day he would have, given he was now awake. And clearly she was still upset about his plans with Janine, despite him doing Rose's bidding and instigating the removal of John Garvie from the Media and Communications committee, with the added bonus of the future arrest of the bastard on charges of corruption. But this morning self-preservation had kicked in, and he lay, largely immobile, on her bed until Rose returned with a cup of tea, a glass of water, a plate of toast, and paracetamol tablets.

She set the tray down onto her bedside table.

"You must be feeling poorly," she remarked. "You don't usually stay in bed once you're awake, unless—"

"—you're in it," he finished for her with a grim smile.

She matched his expression with a half-hearted smile of her own. It didn't meet her eyes, Sherlock noted.

"Well, I'm leaving now," she said, taking a seat on the bed. She leant over to kiss Sherlock goodbye.

"Do you trust me?" he asked, thus disrupting their goodbye ritual before it had even commenced.

Rose sat back and sighed. "Sherlock," she said.

He'd take that as a 'yes,' so he ventured forth.

"Do you trust Ms Small?"

Rose's shoulders drooped a little, and she bowed her head, lowering her eyes. Sherlock reached for her hand once more. He'd take her little gesture as a nod of affirmation as well.

"Because I _have_ been running things past her in regard to infiltrating Magnussen's fortress," he continued, "and most of it's her idea anyway."

"I know."

They regarded each other in an uncomfortable silence, their hands still clasped together, before Rose leant over and kissed Sherlock's forehead. His eyes fluttered shut momentarily as he heaved a sigh in disappointment. He didn't know what he had wanted from Rose, but words of encouragement or applause for his current progress may have been nice.

When he opened his eyes again, Rose asked, "Do you love me?"

"Yes."

Rose studied Sherlock's eyes as if she was looking for something there. Finally, and to Sherlock's relief, she said, "I love you, too." She pressed a soft, lingering kiss to his lips, but before he knew it, she had left the bedroom.

As the front door clicked shut, Sherlock wearily looked over to the breakfast tray. Tea, toast, tablets. Not an attractive prospect for early morning consumption. He'd prefer something stronger. Seven percent stronger.

Still, he thought, sliding upwards to a sitting position and reaching for the toast, he would need something in his stomach to throw up in a minute.

* * *

Dinner with Janine was an intimate affair, in an exclusive restaurant, as per Tonya Small's specifications. The Grosvenor Square fine-dining, celebrity chef-owned venue was booked out month's in advance. It was only due to one or two tables regularly kept reserved for the most influential of society's upperclass to allow them to 'walk up' that one could ever think to make a booking for the same night. In fact, one would have to be royalty, a visiting world leader, a Hollywood A-lister, or a Consulting Detective who knew a thing or two about both the maitre d' and the celebrity chef to be able to acquire such a table.

"Wow," Janine remarked as they were finally left alone with their menus. "My boss can only ever get a table in here by blackmailing someone."

She laughed, indicating that she was only joking, however Sherlock knew the truth behind the quip. But here was the opening he had been waiting for, and he wasted no time in keeping the conversation topic on Janine's work and her employer.

Janine, well-lubricated by now from the twenty-eight-year-old red wine, and thoroughly relaxed by her amusing and intelligent thirty-three-year-old companion, slowly revealed the intricacies of working for someone like Charles Augustus Magnussen. Her initially cagey responses of "he's a challenge to work for," were further expanded on as the hour grew late. She added that Charles, as she called him, knew something about her, some silly little irresponsible thing she'd done in her early twenties. While he didn't exactly laud it over her, it had set the tone for their employer-employee relationship. She did, however, consider working for the owner-proprietor of CAM Global News to be good for her career in the long run.

Their conversation turned to Janine's accommodation woes, and how unwelcome her friend Amber was making Janine feel, even though the latter had hardly spent any time in London this week. Fortunately, for Janine, she had the chance to check out a place to rent tomorrow afternoon, and she coyly asked Sherlock if he would accompany her to check out if the landlord was a sleaze or not. Sherlock agreed to her request, outwardly smiling, but inwardly dreading how he would tell Rose that their all-day-in-bed Sunday cuddling session was going to be disrupted once more because of Janine Hawkins.

After a pause in conversation, due to their table being cleared, Sherlock took the opportunity to further cement his place in Janine's heart. As the hour grew late, he confessed to being a drug addict.

Janine took his apology for his appalling behaviour on Friday afternoon in the spirit in which it was intended. She was both horrified on his behalf and sympathetic to his plight. On Thursday night he had relapsed, he told her, and he had been crashing on Friday, which explained his aggressive and irritable manner. Janine reacted with all the right words. She hadn't known; how could she be so insensitive as to walk into his flat and demand an apology.

He was playing her, and she was responding beautifully.

"It's been a long time since I've been anywhere near..." He sighed as if the confession was taking a toll on his spirit. "I can't let John know," he gracefully side-stepped, his voice like gravel, such was the burden of emotion it carried. "I've had his support for so many years. He'd be... disappointed."

There was an element of truth in his statement, but he swiftly switched out the real guilt he felt for a fake one.

He waited for the "Oh, Sherl," that would normally accompany his sporadic outpourings of emotion. Janine did not leave him hanging for long.

But he needed to bind her to him a little more tightly. Thus far, she'd reacted exactly how he'd wanted her to.

He drew in a steadying breath.

"I've always had someone... to rely on, for support. But now, since John's wedding..."

He dropped his gaze to the table and fiddled with his napkin. Janine reached out and gave his hand an affectionate squeeze.

"Oh, Sherl, you ninny. You know, you've got me."

Sherlock kept his eyes on their entwined fingers. He counted backwards in his head to get the timing just right. Eyes moist with gratitude, he slowly met Janine's gaze. He locked his eyes on hers and said nothing in response for several seconds.

Then, apparently, the cold detective-genius realised how awkward the situation had become and suddenly withdrew his hand, coughed, then straightened in his chair. A stilted conversation about dessert followed and the decision to skip coffee was made.

His evening's work was almost complete. There was just that one last challenge.

The kiss.

"So, you've never had rehab or counselling?" Janine probed as they walked along Grosvenor Square, near the U.S. Embassy in search of a cab.

 _Counselling,_ Sherlock repeated in his mind. Now that was a word he'd heard far too often these days, thanks to Rose. And then an idea struck him, one that would give him a connection to Rose, should Magnussen's spies ever pick up on anything. Not quite the detestable cover of _counsellor_ that Rose had given herself when talking to Mary and, earlier, his landlady, but still one that was quite plausible.

"Not really, despite my brother's best efforts," he began, eyeing the black cabs that passed them by. He'd need one later, at just the right moment. He sighed deeply, for dramatic effect. "While I don't have a counsellor or therapist, I do, however, have a sponsor, of sorts."

"A sponsor? Well, that's interesting. What kind of person would sponsor Sherlock Holmes?"

"Not a very good one, I'm afraid." Sherlock gave Janine half-smile. "I rarely see her. She's fallen off the wagon a couple of times herself. She thinks I've no idea, but—"

"You're Sherlock Holmes," Janine replied, a sparkle of affection in her eyes.

"Precisely."

"Please don't tell me it was you who made her fall off the wagon."

"I hope not," he replied in good humour. _It probably was,_ Sherlock thought, bitterness creeping into his mind. If the fictitious Rose-the-sponsor was anything like Rose-his-girlfriend, then he most likely _would_ be the cause of her over-indulgence in Class B drugs.

They stopped walking as Sherlock raised an arm for a cab that was further along the street.

"Look," Janine said, a serious edge to her voice, and one that Sherlock had been counting on hearing. "If you ever need someone to talk to... or hang out with," she added, a sheepish smile creeping in, "I'm here, okay? Well... when I'm in town. Day or night, just a phone call away."

A faint smile graced Sherlock's lips as he looked down on Janine.

"Thank - you," he said, feigning great reluctance. Sherlock Holmes, after all, rarely asked for, or thanked people for, assistance.

Sherlock maintained eye contact with Janine, giving the impression that he was contemplating his next move. He could read the anticipation in her eyes as he moved closer. Steeling himself for the worst, but keeping the outward appearance of a confident seducer, he dropped his voice a couple of notches and said, "Good night, Janine." Before she could respond, he placed a gentle hand behind her elbow and bowed his head, laying his lips lightly on hers.

To his surprise, and relief, her lips were soft and undemanding. That she didn't immediately swallow him whole came as an enormous relief to Sherlock. He kept his mouth closed, but not too unyielding. It was longer than a smack, but shorter than one of his and Rose's standard goodbyes. He eased back before her lips parted. Everything he'd been hoping to see in her eyes was there.

In two quick strides, Sherlock was over to the kerb and holding the cab door open for Janine.

 _Perfect timing_ , _cabbie,_ Sherlock thought, as he observed Janine attempting to recompose herself as she joined him by the taxi.

"Thank you for dinner," she said a little breathily, as she settled into the back seat.

"I'll see you tomorrow afternoon, then?" he asked, in a conversational tone as if _the kiss_ had not happened.

"Ah... yeah. Thanks. 2pm."

Sherlock gave her a nod and a faint smile before closing the cab door on her. He raised a hand in farewell at the darkened window, then turned, swiftly making tracks in the opposite direction as the cab pulled away from the kerb.

Sherlock reflected on _the kiss_ as he walked along. He wouldn't signal for another taxi yet; he needed to smoke. And think.

His heart-rate was only slightly elevated, but he knew the cause was the anticipation of the kiss, rather than as a result of the kiss itself. He made the comparison that kissing Janine was like kissing a long-lost relative. Not of the Uncle Rudy variety, but perhaps a cousin. A distant cousin. Perhaps one he only vaguely knew the name of. Not even a slight hint of passion passed between them, he concluded. At least not from his perspective. Janine's reaction told him all about her perspective.

Good. This was not going to be an issue for him at all.

By the time Sherlock reached Leinster Gardens, his heart-rate raced along once more. He could no longer anticipate the mood in which he'd find Rose. He could only live in hope for the tender and caring version of Rose that had showered him with affection late last night and in those first few minutes of him waking this morning.

Sherlock's heart jolted in disappointment once he'd entered the flat. The air was heavy in Rose's absence and Sherlock felt a lead weight materialise in the pit of his stomach.

 _Saturday night._ It was barely on eleven. Rose had never said she was going anywhere. She didn't have counselling at the ASXX, as that was on Wednesday nights. Sherlock knew that Rose had some semblance of a social life, preferring to either go out with her workmates, or toke with Billy in that shit-hole in east London. Maybe there were other friends he didn't know about? Old uni friends? Strippers? Prostitutes?

Former clients?

Or she could be having a lovely, quiet, sedate, _sober_ dinner with her parents.

The last option very rarely happened, but it was still a possibility, and one Sherlock hoped for.

If he rang her to find out, there was always the chance she could be stoned, and Sherlock didn't want to participate in a conversation like the one they had on Wednesday night when she had been high. Nor did he want to pick her up from there. Even less palatable was the thought of her staying overnight in Billy's room.

Sherlock decided to stay where he was, in Bayswater. He didn't have the energy to head on over to Bart's and ring Molly to provide him with something interesting to poke at. And besides, she was probably playing _Charades_ or something equally appalling with that fiancé of hers and their other couple-y friends.

So Sherlock showered, shaved, donned pyjamas and decided to watch something on telly. Or surf the net on Rose's laptop, read her emails, that kind of thing. The idea of checking his own emails and trawling through them for mediocre cases held less of an appeal.

Sherlock had just settled down onto Rose's sofa, cup of tea by his side on the coffee table, pointless reality television programme on the box, and Rose's emails listed in front of him, when he spotted a potentially relevant message.

It came from Sunil, who Sherlock knew to be a co-worker of Rose's. Sunil had sent the message to a bunch of people as well as Rose, Sherlock noted, inviting them to his engagement party tonight.

Well, there you have it, Sherlock thought, only mildly anxious. But on further examination he realised there was a brief exchange of emails between Sunil and Rose after the invitation had been sent. Sunil was asking Rose if she could contact ' _that Billy guy._ '

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at those three little words, harmless at first glance, but heavy in their implication. He quickly discarded Rose's laptop and leapt from the sofa. Disappointingly, he found what he'd been hoping not to find: Rose's underwear drawer only contained undergarments. No cannabis!

Sherlock stared at a lacy, black thong, which he viewed rather affectionately with the memories it conjured, before he shook those thoughts loose and settled on an alternate plan. If Rose returned tonight, or even in the early hours, she would most definitely not be herself, and Sherlock wanted to avoid seeing her like that at all costs. So, he swiftly undressed, dumping his pyjamas onto the bed and donned his shirt, trousers and jacket once more.

Finally, he regarded the crumpled-up pjs that he'd left on the corner of Rose's bed. Normally, he'd fold them carefully and stow them in the top drawer of Rose's bureau. This time he decided to leave a message—clues, actually—that he had been here, and had decided to leave because he was unimpressed.

He pulled open Rose's underwear drawer. Another clue. Let her see that he had checked. And those two items along with the cold tea on the coffee table and her laptop displaying the last message he read would definitely lead Rose to the right conclusion. Sherlock had been here waiting for her in his cuddly pyjamas, but had left after learning that Rose had gone to a party and had taken her stash of drugs with her.

Not a difficult deduction to make.

Sherlock wasn't one for playing silly mind games. He used to leave that to John. All his huffing and puffing and tutting around Sherlock had little effect on the detective. But Sherlock was genuinely disappointed with his girlfriend. He had told Rose he'd be back here after dinner with Janine, and Rose had failed to let him know that she wouldn't be.

* * *

Rose squinted at the sun, then sighed heavily at having to stop by a small shrub—the third (or fourth?)—against which Tonya's puppy had lifted its hind leg. She retrieved her sunglasses from the top of her head and covered her eyes with them once more.

She had no idea why she had agreed to walking Tonya's dogs with the woman herself. The Clarence House Cannibal was under the weather as well. Perhaps it was a case of misery loving company.

It served Rose right, though, toking at Sunil's til all hours, getting a lift home at the crack of dawn and finding that Sherlock had been at her place, and had left in a bit of a huff. At least, that was how she saw it. The evidence was all there. Sherlock would've been proud of her ability to deduce what had happened, if he wasn't pissed off with her about it. Their Sunday cuddling routine had practically been abandoned of late.

She had tried to sleep in, but felt like eating an enormous brunch. Not having much money left in her account (and payday was still a week away) she drifted upstairs to Tonya's. The air inside Ms Small's flat was thick with stale cigarette smoke. Rose considered the dining table that was now in the middle of the living room and various cups and empty wine bottles littering the floor beside it. She came to her own conclusion about Tonya's evening as well.

"Poker night?" Rose asked.

"Yes, darling," came the reply from the reclined Tonya Small, who was wearing a pair of sunglasses even though she was inside her own flat.

The woman complained of "feeling dizzy," to which Rose suggested she get some fresh air. Surely constantly breathing in all that stale smoke couldn't be good for her. The next thing she knew, Rose was balancing a coffee in one hand, and a custard danish and a dog leash in the other.

"I don't know how he still has anything left in his bladder," Rose remarked, indicating Dorangel (or was it Armin?).

 _Weird names for puppies,_ she had thought at the time she'd first learnt them. When she'd told Sherlock sometime last year, he'd laughed, telling her he already knew their names, and did she know who Ms Small's dogs had been named after?

 _Cannibals,_ he'd replied, chuckling.

Rose shuddered at the thought as she sank down onto a park bench beside Tonya, who had already decided that she'd had enough of dragging her puppies all over Kensington Gardens.

But Rose's eyes had watered when she thought about Sherlock. She was seriously considering breaking up with him. She couldn't see them having a future together. It just wasn't possible with her past and his fame. All of these thoughts had gone through her head as they lay on her sofa together on Friday night and she had soothed his headache until he'd fallen asleep. It was true that she hadn't wanted to interrupt his sleep, but her other reason for not waking him was because she didn't want him to see that she had been crying. At that point, she thought it inevitable that she would break up with him.

And fairly soon, too.

In the morning, with all the promise of a new day, she'd immediately felt guilty about her morose and defeated thoughts the night before, and she set about reminding herself of all the aspects of Sherlock she loved. His feigning sleep so he could enjoy her attention whenever she kissed him awake was one of them. But then he had mentioned Janine again, and all her previous night's thoughts came tumbling back, taking up residence in her mind and growing and festering throughout the day. It was little wonder that she decided to wipe herself out at Sunil's engagement party.

"What's wrong, darling?" Tonya asked, breaking into Rose's thoughts. The puppies were busy sniffing the park bench before deciding on a good spot to mark their territory.

Rose considered what she wanted to ask Tonya about her and Sherlock's plans involving Janine Hawkins. Of course Tonya would detect that there was meaning behind Rose's prolonged silence.

Finally she asked, "Just how far is Sherlock planning to go with this dinner dating thing?"

"I'm sorry, darling?"

Rose heaved a sigh and gently tugged on the dog leash. Dorangel and Armin had decided to snipe at each other in their boredom at having to remain around the bench.

"With Janine," she replied. "Is he aiming to be her friend and confidante, or has he got something more intimate planned?"

"Oh dear, Rosebud," Tonya replied, her voice dripping with sincerity. "Our plan is for Mr Holmes to become firm friends with Magnussen's secretary. Anything more would be crossing the line."

Behind her sunglasses, Rose's eyes stung again. Why should she now care how close Sherlock and Janine became if she was going to end their relationship anyway?

Tonya rearranged herself so that she could lean in and speak to Rose at a confidential pitch.

"We all know the man he _was,_ " the Clarence House Cannibal began. Rose stifled an eyeroll. At least nowadays Tonya refrained from likening Sherlock to John Garvie. "If he tries to seduce Ms Hawkins, why, he'd not only be betraying you—the woman he loves—but he'd be exploiting Ms Hawkins who has been left in a vulnerable position. And as you've assured me several times, Mr Holmes respects women; he's unlikely to _use_ one so heartlessly."

"Right," Rose said, her mind spinning in confusion.

"He wouldn't have sex with her, darling," Tonya all but whispered. "Even kissing her would be out of the question. That would be such a blatant disregard for your _relationship_."

 _Do you trust me?_ Sherlock had asked her yesterday morning. _Do you trust Ms Small?_

Rose had faith in both of them. But what did it matter now? Her chest tightened and she felt a sharp stab in her heart when she once again thought of when to break up with Sherlock. Her breath came in shallow bursts and she looked away from Tonya, who was now leaning down to untwist the puppies who had tangled their leashes around each other.

The end of next week, Rose decided. Then she'd have all weekend to numb herself with alcohol and weed.

* * *

"Bloody hell, Mycroft," Sherlock all but yelled into his phone. He was standing a discreet distance away from Janine, who was busy texting her potential new landlord. "If they're not leaving forever," he said harshly, "why do we need to have a special dinner just to say goodbye?"

Finally he hung up on his overbearing sibling. Janine quickly joined him on the footpath in front of the door to the flat they had been waiting to enter.

"He's just around the corner. He'll be here in a tick," she said of the tardy landlord. "Was that your brother?"

"Yes. Mycroft."

"Mike?"

"—roft."

"Trying to get out of dinner, are you?"

Sherlock smiled grimly. "My parents are leaving for the U.S. It's for a line dancing thing in… in… somewhere in the region."

Janine chuckled. "Seriously?"

"They're leaving from London at the end of the next week, and they want to have a farewell dinner. They'll only be going for a month. I don't see why it's a big deal. I was abroad for two years and didn't spend a minute missing them."

"Oh, Sherl. They're your parents!"

"Yes, my thoughts exactly. I have better things to do with my time."

Janine affectionately linked her arm through Sherlock's as the landlord appeared around the corner. Once the inspection was complete, Sherlock was able to reassure Janine that her new landlord wasn't a pervert, but his diet included too much salt, and he would die of a heart attack within the next five... _no, three_ , years.

Her accommodation sorted, Janine and Sherlock parted ways, with Sherlock only giving her a peck on the cheek. Well, it _was_ broad daylight. Janine made promises to call Sherlock once the paperwork had all gone through and she had the keys early in the week. Perhaps they could celebrate with a bottle of wine at hers, she had suggested.

While he walked toward the high street in a bid to find another taxi, Sherlock decided to bite the bullet and ring Rose. How did they get to here? Prolonged silences, dancing around topics of importance, images of past sex acts with former clients... okay, that one wasn't typical in many relationships.

Sherlock listened while Rose's phone rang out then switched to her messaging service. He hung up. She'd see a missed call from him and at least know that he had tried to get in contact with her. He wondered what Rose had made of all the little clues he'd left behind.

As he crossed the busy street to hail a cab from the other side, his phone rang. His stomach sank in disappointment when he glanced at the caller ID. It was Janine.

"So, I've well and truly over-stayed my welcome here," she said, speaking in a low voice as if she didn't want to be overheard. "I was wondering if I could stay at yours for a couple of nights? Tonight and Monday night?"

Sherlock's stomach roiled in horror... for a split second anyway. He immediately answered with an indecisive, "Ah..." then all of his faculties went into the careful consideration of the impact this decision would have on both his private life and the case. A couple of nights in intimate conversation with Janine in front of his fireplace: very conducive to finding out Magnussen's schedule and where he stored important documents—letters between an underage girl and a respected gentleman, for example.

Rose need never know, he thought. And she didn't visit him in his flat any more anyway. It was a low risk situation that may yield high results.

Decision made in the space of a few hundredths of a second, Sherlock replied, "Of course."


	57. The Rest is Just Transport

Rose didn't return Sherlock's missed call from that afternoon, and any thoughts of going to see her at Leinster Gardens were dismissed from his mind now that Janine was going to stay the night.

 _Two_ nights.

It was very rare that he and Rose didn't share a Sunday together. Sherlock tried to quell the churning in his gut about what this case may be doing to the aspects of their relationship he'd come to enjoy and rely upon. And he hadn't told Rose about finding the photos of her and Garvie on one of Garvie's old phone handsets on the Thursday night that he had terrorised the MP.

Sherlock had remembered during his visit to the Rockwell South constituency office that Rose had told him she would regularly delete the photos Garvie took whenever the MP had passed out at the end of their sessions from all of the drugs and booze he'd consumed. She would be so upset to learn that they had still been accessible to those who possessed the technology to retrieve deleted data such as this.

Fortunately, Sherlock was able to determine that the data hadn't been accessed since 2012, when Rose had deleted them. He had made the mistake of checking that the images were, in fact, of Rose. And that had been his undoing, and the reason why he had trussed up John Garvie and had threatened to castrate him with the man's own letter opener. Luckily, for Mr Garvie, Sherlock had overcome that particular cocaine-fuelled act of aggression and had come to his senses. Instead he sought to search the office for evidence of dodgy dealings.

Sherlock had half an hour before Janine was due, so he tidied up his flat a little, taking care to hide the file on Garvie's corrupt dealings in a better place other than underneath a pile of papers on his desk.

When Janine arrived, Sherlock made tea and polite conversation. During a conversation about sharing the bed again, Sherlock declined this time, stating that he didn't know if he could trust himself. He was speaking the truth once more, but was happy to mislead Janine with another meaning entirely now that he had kissed her. He intended spending two nights on his sofa, if he slept at all.

Sherlock told her he was going to spend a few hours at Bart's hospital, undertaking research. He needed to 'acquire' additional equipment to add to Rose's druggy friend's makeshift lab and he wanted to check the stocks in the pathology department at Bart's.

With Janine assuring him she'd order in her own dinner, Sherlock left for the hospital. As it was a Sunday night, he didn't expect to encounter many, if any, staff members. Happily, he found what he was looking for. He was suitably startled, therefore, when a voice spoke behind him as he was closing up a cardboard box full of equipment and chemicals he had acquired.

"Stealing again?"

Inwardly, he jumped; outwardly, he calmly turned and gifted his favourite pathologist with an affectionate, if slightly phony, smile.

"Ah, Molly."

In one glance, Sherlock determined that Molly was looking tired, and a little... upset. Was she at work on a Sunday night because she'd had an argument with her fiancé? Her attire gave the impression she'd dressed in a hurry, thrown a jacket over whatever she'd been lounging around her flat in. Sherlock had stayed at Molly's now and again, in years gone by, turning up unannounced, declaring her flat one of his 'bolt holes,' so he was well aware what type of clothing she typically relaxed in.

"What's in the box, Sherlock?" Molly asked, folding her arms in front of her.

"Just... a few things. Updating my stocks at home. You know..."

"May I see?"

Sherlock furrowed his brow.

"Just the usual, Molly."

"Yes, I know," she said humourlessly. _Yes, definitely a fight with the fiancé._ "But I'd like to know what stocks have been depleted so I don't get any nasty surprises when I need formic acid at three in the morning and there isn't any."

With a sigh, Sherlock placed the box down onto a counter. He watched, heart-rate slightly accelerated, as Molly Hooper cast an expert eye over its contents.

"Hydrochloric acid," she said, examining the label on one bottle. She peered past the Pyrex beakers, graduated cylinders, and glass stir rods and read another. "Ammonia."

"Both items necessary for a home chemistry lab," Sherlock said, his eyes sparkling with a hint of mischief.

But clearly Molly wasn't in the mood for frivolities.

"And both those items are needed in the acid-base extraction method used to purify cocaine."

"Molly..."

"What's going on, Sherlock?"

"As you know, hydrochloric acid is quite often used to neutralise—"

"You know what I'm talking about," Molly said through narrow eyes.

Sherlock dropped his flippant attitude. He rearranged his features so that his expression matched Molly's.

"Yes, and quite frankly I'm just a little insulted." He closed up the box lest Molly spy the small box of syringes underneath the filter papers. "During my stint abroad in foreign countries, I managed to look after myself like a grown up. Returning here to find that everyone had moved on—and quite rightly so, I should add—it took me a little getting used to. Adjusting to civilian life wasn't easy, but I managed to do that without the aid of mind-altering chemicals. I've just spent five months organising the Watsons' wedding, a feat which would've driven any ordinary person to drink. And now here I am, my email inbox overflowing with client requests, doing what I do best—working on cases—and it's only now that you decide to step in and question my frame of mind."

Molly had opened and closed her mouth several times during Sherlock's mini-rant.

Finally, she said, "Sherlock, we do have precedent."

"When I'm idle and bored," Sherlock replied, his gaze piercing Molly with all the conviction he could muster. "But never on a case."

Molly's face softened a little, so Sherlock took that as his cue to leave.

"And besides," he said, tucking the box underneath his arm, "these days, all the cool kids are washing their cocaine with acetone."

He winked, then swept through the door from the pathology lab without a backward glance.

He felt only mildly guilty at lying to—or at the very least, misleading—Molly Hooper. He quickly dismissed that emotion as swiftly as it had manifested itself. He had work to do, but Molly could quite possibly raise the alarm, making the cavalry, in the form of a pompous arse, come running—or strolling—into Baker Street, umbrella in hand. No matter. Sherlock would set up an innocent-looking titration experiment in his kitchen in 221B, while the real laboratory would be bubbling away in some seedy makeshift kitchen in east London.

Sherlock returned from Bart's much earlier than he had intended. Janine was still awake and reading, stretching out along the sofa. Sherlock found it odd to see her dressed in her nightie and dressing gown, but it was infinitely preferable to her wearing one of his shirts.

He made them tea, then settled into his armchair to read. Before too long, Janine moved to the armchair opposite. Sherlock gave her a warm smile and closed up his book. Let the cozy interrogation begin.

* * *

The next morning, Sherlock was up early, way before Janine. He decided to have a long soak in the bath while he decided what he was going to achieve that week. He was just retrieving his shampoo from the shower shelf while the bath was filling, when Janine boldly opened the door to the bathroom from the bedroom.

"Oh, Jesus Christ!" she exclaimed, then swiftly shut the door. "I'm so sorry!" she called through the door. "I thought you were in the living room!"

Sherlock hung his head and sighed.

John was always telling him to _lock the bloody door_ , and he did when he used the toilet. Not so much when he was showering or shaving. Why would he? He'd lived alone for long enough and besides, what did people have against the nude form? Everybody had one underneath their clothing, even the King of England, and Sherlock had been fully prepared to dump his bedsheet and parade about naked in His Majesty's house.

 _"Why are you acting so embarrassed?"_ Sherlock had asked John through the door during one such bathroom encounter. _"I'm the one who's naked."_

 _"Well, why aren't_ you _embarrassed?"_ John had retorted.

_"Because I have nothing to be embarrassed about."_

Sherlock said nothing in response to Janine and continued drawing his bath. Settling in, his mind had already drifted to Rose, and when he would smell her delightful soap and shampoo on her person again. He had squirted bath gel into the water and it had worked itself into a nice mountain of foam. Bubbles. Perfect for blocking out the world, and John Watson's nagging specifically. He recalled those times fondly: John yelling through the door to hurry up, while Sherlock sank lower and lower under the water until his ears were full of bubbles and he could no longer hear his annoying flatmate.

But, hang on. That voice sounded feminine.

Sherlock lifted his head above the water again, and wiped the excess suds from his ears.

"...have to get to work," she was saying.

Oh. _Janine._

"Sorry, what?"

"I need my toiletry bag. I want to brush my teeth so I can leave. I have to get to work."

Sherlock sighed and ran his hands over his head, slicking his hair back with suds that immediately popped underneath his palms.

"Come in, if you like. I don't mind," he called out.

The door opened a crack. Janine's voice floated through it.

"Are y'sure? I mean, aren't you in the bath?"

"Yes."

"But..."

Sherlock tutted. "If you're worried about my modesty, there's really no need."

Sherlock closed his eyes when he heard Janine enter, and he leant his head on the back of the bathtub, resting his arms along the sides.

"I'll just get..." she said, her voice thick with apology. "...take it to the kitchen sink," she added, murmuring. Sherlock could hear her retrieving her toiletry bag and dropping items into it.

"You don't have to leave," Sherlock drawled disinterestedly. "I won't embarrass you again. I'm well-covered by _bubbles_."

The rummaging behind him paused momentarily, and he knew Janine was taking that moment to check him out. All she'd see above the water would be his head, arms, bare shoulders and chest, his kneecaps, because he had to bend his legs a little, and his long, slender toes. The rest of her silence would be dedicated to using her imagination for what lay beneath the bubbles.

"Well, if you're not bothered…" she said.

"Why would I be _bothered_?"

"I did just see you naked."

"And, again, why would I be _bothered_?" he said, keeping his eyes closed.

"Most people would—"

"I'm not most people."

"No," Janine responded resignedly. "I guess you're not."

Sherlock continued his quiet contemplation as Janine began brushing her teeth. After a fashion, Sherlock felt he should offer some further explanation for his way of thinking.

"You're embarrassed because your own sexual experiences with a wide variety of men, I imagine, has led you to view my naked body in a sexualised way, despite a lifetime of being exposed to the male nude form in school science texts, various media formats, including television shows and advertisements, and the undressed mannequin in the shop window." He paused while Janine ran the tap to rinse. "And you think I should feel flustered at having been exposed in front of you. Quite the contrary. I never feel embarrassed for simply existing without clothing."

Sherlock was faced with silence while he assumed Janine was finishing up.

"Okay. I get the picture," she said eventually, and she moved where Sherlock could see her. "Quite a few males I've known, though, don't share your confidence in their naked bodies. And comparing yours to theirs, I can see why you're so uninhibited."

Sherlock slowly opened his eyes having detected a hint of humour in Janine's tone.

"Comparing my body to theirs?"

"I didn't say your _body_."

Sherlock initially frowned until Janine raised one mischievous eyebrow.

"Oh," he said, tutting and rolling his eyes. "You're referring to the fantasy that size matters, or some rubbish."

"Why would it be a fantasy?" Janine chided him. "I've had practical experience in the area."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at Janine, and scrutinised her from head to toe.

"Mmm, I don't doubt it," he remarked, as if he could read her precise sexual history in just one glance. "But the problem lies within the expression itself. A man with a small penis has been led to believe all his life that he couldn't possibly be any good in bed, therefore he performs abysmally. Self-fulfilling prophecy."

"Or, the small-penis man tries to overcompensate with a lot of enthusiasm and ends up jack-hammering and getting nowhere," Janine volunteered pleasantly.

Sherlock's eyes widened at the visual she had given him, then looked away, saying, "Okay, then."

Janine laughed his reaction.

"So, where do you lie, Sherl?" she asked. "Do you prove the expression, or disprove it?"

"What do you think," he asked, looking up at Janine and narrowing his eyes in the issuing of a challenge, "given what you know about me?"

Janine folded her arms in front of her and maintained eye contact with Sherlock.

"Hmm. Well, from what I know about you—a little arrogant and conceited..."

Sherlock rolled his eyes to the ceiling and tutted.

"… For good reason, though. You usually back that up with knowledge and skills." Janine narrowed her own eyes, as if she was carefully considering her assessment. "I'd say, you'd boast about being very good, and y'probably are...but..."

Sherlock raised his brows in keen interest.

"...but you've already said you don't bother fulfilling your own sexual needs, so if you ever have, you're likely to be inexperienced and therefore pretty lousy."

Sherlock tore his gaze from Janine, and nodded imperceptibly.

"Good assessment," he said, drawing his knees up. He suddenly pressed his hands on either side of the bath and raised himself to a standing position. "A well-thought out—"

"Jesus, Sherl!"

Janine turned her back on Sherlock, and raised her eyes to the ceiling.

"Oh," Sherlock said, completely forgetting where he was again as water and suds ran down his lithe, muscular form. "And now we're back to feeling embarrassed. Could you hand me that towel, please?"

Sherlock had been carried away with the conversation, which had taken him away from the incident that had started it in the first place: unintentionally exposing himself to Janine.

Janine grabbed the towel from the rail in front of her and passed it back to Sherlock without turning around.

"Thank you," he said, sheepishly. He wasn't embarrassed about being naked. They'd already established that. He just felt foolish at losing himself in the conversation.

He had wrapped the towel around his hips and was just stepping out of the bathtub when Janine said, "Are y'decent now?"

"Yes."

Janine turned around to face him, faint traces of amusement gracing her features.

"So, was I correct?" she asked, now looking up at Sherlock as he stood in close proximity, beads of water dotting his bare chest.

"Your initial assessment was correct," he said, a tiny smile playing on his lips. "I am very good. But your addendum may have been true at one point, too. It hasn't been the case for quite some time. But you're right." While the rest of his statements had been the truth, Sherlock hesitated for a split second before he spoke the lie. "I really don't bother with it."

"Well, there's only one way to find out for myself, isn't there?" she said, with a tilt of her head.

Sherlock neutralised his expression. "There really isn't." Janine's face brightened into a smile. Before she could hint at anything else, Sherlock added, "Don't you have to get to work now?"

A laugh escaped Janine and she turned and exited into the bedroom. She sank onto the bed and began putting on her heels as Sherlock shut the bathroom door and heaved out a sigh.

He was an idiot. Whatever his own thoughts on nudity were, this just wasn't appropriate behaviour when flat-sharing with a woman who wasn't your lover. John would argue that it wasn't appropriate behaviour with _anybody_ , but the man was a _soldier_ and a _doctor_. He should've been used to that sort of thing.

Even with Rose, Sherlock would cover himself with a towel when walking from the bathroom to her bedroom to retrieve his pyjamas. But that wasn't a case of modesty, it was because he invariably had an erection, and he didn't want Rose to think he was overly keen.

"Are you fucking kidding me," he muttered to his penis, as it began stir at the thought of Rose waiting in her bed for him to return from the shower.

"Did you say something?" Janine called from the bedroom.

"Nope! Just couldn't find my... shaving cream. Everything's fine."

"Well, I'm going now," she said through the door. "Are y'decent?"

"No."

Janine laughed, then he heard her heels on the passageway outside the kitchen.

"Okay, well, see you tonight then," she called back.

Sherlock's shoulders drooped in relief when he heard her footsteps die away on the stairs. He released his grip on the towel then used it to dry himself. Now that he could begin to think clearly, he decided that there were benefits to be gained from this little incident.

If he kept pushing Janine away during random moments of intimacy, she would tire of him fairly quickly. She was the kind of woman who actively sought casual encounters whenever she had 'down time.' If she had designs on Sherlock—and all evidence pointed to this fact—then clearly he was preventing her from having those sexual encounters, and she would want something physical to happen fairly soon. He had to give the impression, at least, that this was a possibility at some time in the near future. Sherlock was confident that the case would be over long before then.

After he dressed, he grabbed the box of supplies he'd acquired from Bart's and headed off to east London—Canning Town, specifically. It was probably far too early for some, Sherlock thought in reflection as he unpacked the various laboratory equipment and chemicals in Wiggins' kitchen.

"And don't let any of your mates touch this stuff," he'd instructed a bleary-eyed Wiggins. "On second thoughts, do you have a cabinet with a child-proof lock on it?"

Leaving Rose's friend with the supplies and the promise to bring back more, Sherlock returned to Baker Street, making a couple of calls along the way. One was to Rose, who didn't answer—she probably didn't want to talk to him while she was at work, he surmised _...hoped;_ and the other to DI Lestrade about the file on Garvie.

He assumed Lestrade would turn up at some point but he wouldn't wait around for him. Sherlock really needed to finish his equipment acquisition from Bart's, but he decided not to visit again until the early hours of the morning when Molly Hooper would almost certainly not be present.

At some stage during the week, Sherlock would need Wiggins to assist in the cooking of something for a special occasion. Curiously, the names the young man kept telling Sherlock to call him never seemed to resemble whatever it was that Rose called him. However, brief conversations with the stoner had led Sherlock to conclude that the man knew his way around a chemistry lab.

There was a problem with Sherlock Holmes being high on cocaine: most people didn't notice. His brother would though, and so would Rose. Possibly Molly Hooper and John Watson. More likely Mary Watson. But this group of people wasn't the intended audience for his planned pantomime. Janine Hawkins and/or Magnussen's spies were. They were the ones who needed to witness Sherlock Holmes' deterioration of mental acuity and conclude that the Consulting Detective was no serious threat to their boss. Sherlock Holmes _thought_ better when high on cocaine, he knew that. So his drug of choice could no longer be his favoured stimulant.

So if he and Wiggins spent all day in the kitchen on Tuesday, he could possibly be ready to see Janine at her new place that night. She had suggested they celebrate with wine. Sherlock was determined to be high on mind-altering substances. But not that cut-to-shit crap he'd insufflated last week. He'd want a better quality, and even then, they'd spend time purifying it. And not just the cocaine. Sherlock thought Wiggins would be able to help him with a recipe customised to suit his needs.

It was such a tight deadline, so Sherlock was actually relieved when Janine received a call from her boss on Monday night. They were to travel to Berlin early the next morning and wouldn't be back in England until Friday night.

"Sherl, would you be a love and collect the keys for me tomorrow? I'll grab them from you at the end of the week. I'll even cook for you. How about that?"

He'd readily agreed while he was preparing their evening cups of tea, and received a couple of soft kisses on the lips from Janine in appreciation. When she eased back, he masked his feeling of indifference with one of alarmed confusion.

"I don't understand what's happening here," he said, leaning back against the kitchen counter.

Janine's brows rose in sympathy and she lightly touched his chest.

"Oh, Sherl! Haven't you ever been in a relationship before?"

Sherlock took a step sideways, feigning a growing discomfort.

"Is that what this is?"

"It's whatever you want it to be."

At her words, Sherlock thought he'd lighten the mood before it got too heavy.

With a barely restrained smile, he said, "I'd want it to be a seemingly unsolvable murder. A conundrum wrapped in an enigma."

Janine chuckled lightly and narrowed the gap between them once more.

"You are such a wag, Sherlock Holmes." She pressed a kiss to his lips once more, then whispered, "And I promise to be very gentle."

"With what?"

"With taking this to the next level."

Sherlock furrowed his brow. He knew how ignorance looked. He saw it reflected on the faces of the ordinary almost every day.

"There are levels?" he asked.

Another tiny laugh escaped Janine before she said, "I'll take you through each one, so don't worry. I can't believe you're acting all nervous like this while you're fully dressed," she said, running the flat of her palm over his chest. "Just this morning—"

"The difference is in our intentions," he said, maintaining eye contact with Janine until she sought to narrow the gap between them.

With the curiosity of a marine biologist observing the courting rituals of the mantis shrimp, Sherlock detached himself emotionally from Janine's wet kisses. His lips were parted slightly, pliable, not entirely unwelcoming, but he barely participated in this moment of intimacy.

He was just about to press his own kiss to her lips to punctuate the end of this nonsense, when the front door to the street below slammed shut. The tiny, almost imperceptible tap that preceded the careful footsteps heralded exactly who Sherlock's visitor was. The fleeting look of alarm on his face was genuine this time.

"My brother," he murmured, straightening up.

In the time it took most people to blink, and Mycroft Holmes to tread that first step, Sherlock had already determined that this visit had come at a most inopportune time. If his elder brother discovered a woman in Sherlock's flat, a woman who was currently dressed in a nightie and dressing gown, then she would receive the full force of the British Government's sticky-beakiness. Janine's identity and occupation, and therefore her connection to Charles Augustus Magnussen would result in Mycroft interfering in some way. And given that Sherlock suspected Mycroft had attended Magnussen's committee hearing a month ago, there was no doubt that his brother would be well aware of the reputation of the media giant. Mycroft Holmes was perfectly capable of putting two and two together. Whether the answer equalled 'four' or 'Pi to the seventh decimal place,' was yet to be determined. Sherlock must keep Janine hidden at all costs.

"If you wouldn't mind," Sherlock quietly and urgently bid Janine, gently pressing on her elbow and indicating his bedroom.

"Oh?" Janine queried, but she quickly caught on and hurried through the kitchen.

Sherlock followed her along the passageway to his bedroom.

Holding the door to prevent Janine closing it behind her, he said, "Leave it open. I'll explain later."

Sherlock quickly opened the door to the landing from the kitchen, then assumed a casual air as he took his position in front of the tea things again. He placed both hands on the tea cups, as if he had just placed them on the counter and said, without turning around, "Tea, Mycroft?"

"Dinner is Friday night," his brother said without preamble, strolling across the threshold and ignoring Sherlock's offer. "They're flying out early on Saturday morning. Do be there, won't you?"

Sherlock wearily turned to face Mycroft.

"You came all this way just to tell me the same thing we've already discussed on the phone?"

"Our conversation hadn't finished. You hung up on me. So... Friday."

"Ah... no. I have plans."

Mycroft's eyes became beady. "Change them."

"Look, this is ridiculous. I don't do dinner with—"

"They're flying half-way around the world."

"So?" Sherlock asked, crossing his arms in front of him.

"Anything could happen."

The detective-genius narrowed his eyes at his brother. "Are you threatening our parents with some seemingly random act of terrorism?"

Mycroft gaped in astonishment at his little brother's outrageous suggestion.

"Don't be absurd. I'm merely reminding you that the world is full of dark and terrible forces—"

"Ah, the East Wind."

"... as well as breeding unfortunate circumstances and events. If anything should happen to our parents while they're abroad at their line dancing convention, you'll be most upset that you didn't get to say goodbye."

" _That_ won't be the reason I'd be upset."

"Sherlock..."

"Look, just pass on my apologies. Write it down in your little brown notebook: _I'm sorry I won't be able to attend the last dinner we may ever eat together—Sherlock Holmes, your favourite son._ "

"Sherlock, don't be so insensitive!"

"You're right. Add one of those little x's. It means a kiss, apparently. Ordinary people like that sort of thing."

"They are our parents. Why can't you act like a responsible son for once."

"Me? Responsible son? You're the one planning a dinner in honour of their potential deaths."

"Oh, grow up!"

"Now that takes me back. I hope you don't say things like that to the ambassador to North Korea."

Mycroft shook his head a little, as if to dismiss Sherlock's words. He refocussed his attention to the rest of the flat, then idly strolled into the living room. Sherlock held his breath. He wondered if Mycroft could detect the presence of a woman within fifty paces. He watched as his brother carefully scrutinised the room. Sherlock silently dared the man to make the correct deduction. He would be most impressed if he did.

"Keeping yourself busy then..." Mycroft said, redirecting his gaze back to Sherlock, "… with clients?"

So the pompous git noticed _something_ , but had deduced incorrectly.

"Yes," Sherlock replied, turning back to the tea things.

"Do you have many?"

"Yeah, loads."

Mycroft was silent for a moment or two which meant he was thinking and calculating, and that wasn't a good thing in Sherlock's opinion.

"So business is still booming then, even in John Watson's absence."

Sherlock hummed in agreement. "Apparently, he's not the drawcard."

Mycroft chuckled lightly without the conviction of amusement in his throat.

"When was the last time you saw him?"

 _Here it comes,_ thought Sherlock. _Brotherly concern. How irritating._

"Oh... three weeks... maybe."

"Three weeks? That's quite a stretch."

Sherlock immediately resented the faux-casualness to his brother's voice. Mycroft Holmes _never_ made small talk.

"I was dead for two years," Sherlock said turning to Mycroft and keeping his tone even. "I'm sure that by now he knows how to occupy his time without me."

"Indeed," Mycroft remarked.

_And now he's agreeing with me. Weren't we having an argument a few minutes ago? Let's get back to that before you start hugging me._

But Mycroft's silence was even more alarming.

Eventually the elder Holmes ventured, his tone heavy in disapproval, "And do you still see that..."

Sherlock froze before he made a concerted effort to start stirring the tea again. He was curious to ascertain the expression his brother currently wore, so he braved a glance in Mycroft's direction. The man had that bitter look of someone who already knew the sound of the word they were about to say, and found it distasteful to their ears.

"No," Sherlock replied, letting his brother off the hook. _That... what? Prostitute? Sex worker?_ Or was Mycroft about to say, _That delightful young woman who knows you so intimately that she professes to love you... yet won't answer your phone calls. That woman?_

Sherlock's heart immediately felt the burden of heart-break. His limbs also grew heavy and an unbearable pressure materialised behind his eyes.

_Rose._

_Why doesn't she ring?_

"Sherlock..."

_Oh, for God's sake..._

"When there's a lull between cases..."

_...please shoot me..._

"...and an absence of those you call... _friends_..."

_...never a sniper around when you need one..._

"...know that I'll be there for you."

Sherlock bowed his head in defeat.

_Go away._

An uncomfortable, yet not too unfamiliar, silence stretched before them.

"Do try to be there on Friday night, won't you? The usual place."

Sherlock forced irritation into his voice. "If I'm there, I'm there. If I'm not, I never intended to be."

He set his jaw, ready for his brother's retort, but was surprised that the silence was punctuated by the light click of the kitchen door closing.

Sherlock _hated_ it when Mycroft acted agreeable. It meant that his brother thought Sherlock was nearing a 'danger night.' Did Molly Hooper contact him after all? Sherlock had laughed when John Watson had questioned him about the meaning behind Mycroft's warning.

" _There's no such thing as a danger night_ ," Sherlock had said to John in response all those years ago. " _It's a fairy tale my brother made up to scare small children._ "

At the time, Sherlock remembered thinking that it was more accurate to describe it as a danger _week._ He never relapsed for _just one night._ He didn't volunteer that information to John though.

As he stayed where he was, leaning heavily on the kitchen counter, his thoughts drifted back to Rose. Interesting that his brother had to ask him about her. That would mean Sherlock's efforts to surreptitiously navigate to and from Rose's flat went undetected by his brother's spies as well.

But why didn't she call? Every minute of every hour of every day since Saturday that he hadn't spoken to her had added another hairline fracture to his already fragile heart. And when his heart beat erratically, like it was doing now, his lungs reacted in sympathy. His breathing grew shallow and his throat began to constrict.

"Sherl? Has he gone?"

She drew closer and Sherlock wanted the ground to swallow him up whole.

"Did you upset you?"

Sherlock briefly closed his eyes and willed himself to calm the fuck down. Janine curled her arms around one of his, and Sherlock was momentarily confused. Rose always did that. This was _Rose's_ way of comforting him. Janine had no right to assume that role.

"Big brother's are all bastards. It's their birthright," she said, chuckling and pressing her cheek against his shoulder. "No matter how old y'are, they always treat you like a child."

Sherlock looked down at Janine, his mind calculating. She'd caught him in a vulnerable position. It was time to play up on it. Now what stories could he make up about his childhood and having Mycroft Holmes as a big brother? He couldn't tell her the truth; she'd never believe him.

* * *

Sherlock spent most of Tuesday in the Canning Town drug lab, after picking up Janine's keys and dropping her things off at her new flat. Wiggins was an excellent chemist and Sherlock felt confident that the man would succeed in producing exactly what Sherlock needed for this coming Friday night. He intended being high on this experimental concoction when Janine arrived back in London.

The Consulting Detective returned to his flat just briefly to meet Lestrade. The Scotland Yard D.I. had finally called Sherlock back and had agreed to pick up the file on the dodgy dealings of a Member of Parliament.

"Did this come from your brother?" Lestrade asked, as he thumbed through the papers.

"No."

"Because this won't result in just a relegation to the backbench. This guy could very well be charged with a criminal offence."

"I'm quite aware of that Detective Inspector."

Lestrade frowned as he closed up the file. He sighed heavily, then said, "Right, then. I'll keep you posted. It may take a few days to go through all this with the bods upstairs."

"Take your time. He isn't going anywhere," Sherlock intoned.

Sherlock left Baker Street on foot at the same time that Greg Lestrade did. He needed to return to east London to supervise the lab but he decided to walk a bit first, so he could smoke and try contacting Rose again. This was getting ridiculous now.

He was quite surprised when she answered the phone, and concerned that she sounded pitiful.

"Rose?"

"Oh. Sherlock."

"Are you all right?"

She seemed to take a lot of time to respond, but finally she sniffed loudly and said, "I've got the flu. I feel like crap."

Sherlock sighed in relief. These days he imagined she was on a permanent high in his absence.

"Do you want me to come over?"

"No. I've taken drugs. I'm in bed."

"What?"

Rose exhaled rather audibly into the phone. "Cold and flu medication," she said exasperatedly, as if she knew exactly what Sherlock had been thinking. "I'm going to sleep now."

"Wait, Rose."

"What?" she asked irritably.

"When can I see you?"

Sherlock became anxious as the seconds ticked by in silence.

"Why?"

_What sort of question was that?_

"Because... we haven't seen each other since Saturday," he replied, his heart sinking just a little.

"I don't know," Rose muttered. Sherlock assumed she was now lying down due to her breathy responses. "Maybe this weekend."

She was pushing him away again. Sherlock's mind was just one more indifferent response away from panic mode.

"I've phoned the cleaners," he told her, wanting... _needing..._ to keep her on the line. "They can come back as early as Thursday, otherwise they're not available again until next Tuesday. When's your inspection?"

"Monday."

"Okay. Thursday it is then."

"Fucking hell. Does it have to be?"

There was no pleasing this woman any more. Sherlock stopped before he reached Marylebone Road. The amount of traffic was making it harder to hear Rose, although her swearing was quite audible.

"What's wrong with Thursday?" he asked.

"I get to sleep in on Thursdays now. I've swapped shifts with That Lazy Fuck..." _Gus_ , Sherlock remembered, Rose's back-office nemesis. "...since I work late on Wednesday nights, counselling," she finished.

"Don't you want your ceiling cleaned before your inspection?"

Sherlock listened intently while Rose said nothing at all. He turned away from Marylebone Road in case Rose _had_ said something on her death bed and he had failed to hear.

"Don't worry about it," she finally responded. "I'll clean the fucking thing myself on the weekend."

"Rose," he said, exhaling heavily. "Don't be ridiculous."

Rose didn't answer, in fact, her silence was even more pronounced than before. Sherlock drew his phone away from his ear and checked the screen. His heart thumped erratically when he saw that she had ended the call.

"You didn't say goodbye!" he said viciously at his handset. He swiftly redialled Rose's number. What was happening between them?

"Rose, you didn't say goodbye!" he repeated to her. He heard her sniff again, but it was less like a ' _I've got the flu'_ kind of sniff and more like an ' _I'm crying into the phone and I don't want my boyfriend to know'_ sniff.

Sherlock stopped walking and hung his head.

"I'm coming over."

"No," she croaked.

"Why not?"

"Because I want to go to sleep early and I don't want to be up all night dealing with you."

" _Dealing with me?_ "

He heard Rose sob again. Now she was _really_ crying. Good fucking job, Sherlock! But the sound was abruptly cut off, which mean Rose had failed to say goodbye again.

Sherlock strode determinedly back down Baker Street, breathing heavily, until he reached his door, then he about-faced and walked swiftly in the opposite direction. Extended pacing.

When he decided that he had calmed down just a little, he stopped and rang Rose's number again.

"Please don't hang up without saying goodbye," he said, keeping his voice light and even. "I have a plan, and it's a good one. It will solve everybody's problems and keep everyone happy."

Rose was silent as she waited, but Sherlock checked the screen to make sure she was still there. He didn't have a plan. He urged his brain to come up with one as pedestrians bundled past and taxis squealed in delight at reaching the kerb.

_Come on. Think!_

"My plan is this..." He tapped his head with the heel of his hand and squeezed his eyes shut. "Okay, this is what we'll do..." He checked the screen once more. Rose was still there, waiting, listening. "You'll go to work tomorrow, and go to counselling in the evening. That's good, so far."

"And?"

"And... then..." He stared at a female pedestrian, hoping her and her over-sized handbag would lend him inspiration. "… you can come over to Baker Street."

"What?"

"Yes!" Sherlock agreed, ecstatic that he now had a plan. "I'll meet you at your counselling office, then lead you on a roundabout route back to Baker Street so nobody can follow us. You stay over, but give your keys to Ms Small tomorrow morning so she can let the cleaners in on Thursday."

"But—"

"This is the best bit, Rose! _You can_ _have the day off on Thursday!_ "

Rose was silent again. Sherlock quickly checked the screen then continued telling her his now brilliant plan as he paced backwards and forwards along a small section of Baker Street.

"You deserve a day off, Rose. Clearly you're run down and you need me to run you a warm bath. And you can soak in there for hours. I'll bring you tea and crumpets. And if you find yourself short of cash next week, I can lend you the money. And don't worry, I'm keeping a list of all the money you owe me, including the cleaning bill, and you can pay me back when you're a fully qualified forensic psychologist. So it won't be like I'm paying you for sex at all."

Rose sobbed out a laugh, and Sherlock's heart soared. He had her; he knew it.

_Just say the word though, Rose. Please._

_For us._

The world passed him by, oblivious to his inner turmoil—the world in which he once saw beauty in the logical and sense in cold hard reason, and one where he'd ridiculed the empathetic and denigrated the love-struck. Nothing made sense any more. Whatever this was, he was rendered incapable of focussing on anything other than her next words, which would either strengthen or incapacitate him.

_Say Yes, Rose._

"Okay."


	58. Just the Two of Us Against the Rest

How exhilarating to be able to walk the seedier streets of London, confident in her own safety. It did help that she had her own personal bodyguard lurking in the shadows somewhere. It was a game of cat and mouse, although Rose wasn't quite sure whether she was the cat or the mouse.

Sherlock would text her directions— _cross this street, walk to the end of that alley, squeeze through the gap in the chain-link fence_ , and occasionally, _take the next night bus past three stops_ —all of which she'd dutifully follow.

Now and again, the man himself would appear silhouetted against a street light. Rose would quicken her pace toward him, before he stepped out of the light and enveloped her in his warm embrace. Her journey was dotted with impatient snogging in closed shop doorways, contrasted with the occasional gentle tug on her hand from behind. Sherlock would then gift her with the most tender of kisses. Preceding some of these was an intermittent evil chuckle that floated through the darkness. The latter, she didn't appreciate.

Rose never knew whether Sherlock would lie in wait up ahead or be observing her from a discreet distance behind. She was sure he was tailing her when she finally approached the door of 221 Baker Street. Upon letting herself inside, she was suddenly thrust up against the wall of the entranceway, and thoroughly welcomed by the resident Consulting Detective's enthusiastic kiss.

It had been one hour and ten minutes of extended foreplay, navigating through darkened London streets, out of the eyes of the city's CCTV networks. But a flight of stairs, a landing and a threshold were the only remaining hurdles to overcome. Finally, without restraint, the couple were tearing away at each other's clothing just inside the living room doorway.

Rose's intermittent thought throughout the whole episode was why did she need dinner and coffee in public places to enjoy her relationship with Sherlock Holmes? Surely this was more thrilling and unique to them. But the reality of her life would creep back in—the shame of her past occupation and the hunger of the press for headlines. And Sherlock Holmes was a sometime celebrity in that regard.

So she would stick to her original plan: enjoy their last day and night together; give themselves one more fond memory, and break up with Sherlock before the weekend.

* * *

Sherlock watched as the jet of water from the tap turned the bath gel into a lather. He worked it vigorously with one hand, before leaving the side of the bath. After drying his hand on a towel, he stood in the doorway to his bedroom. A rare ventricular ectopic beat resounded in his chest at the sight of Rose fast asleep in his bed.

Relief had flooded through him during their late night sojourn through the city to Baker Street. He could tell Rose had been enjoying the journey as much as he. Sex back in the flat may have been sudden and urgent, but he had Rose laughing throughout, so surely that had been a good experience for them both.

He regarded her sleeping form for a moment, before the sudden urge took hold to wake her with light kisses about her face as she had delivered to him on many occasions.

Sherlock left his post by the door and made his way to the far side of the bed. After taking a seat beside Rose's inert body, he leant over her and pressed his first kiss to her forehead. Rose immediately stirred. He placed another light kiss on one cheek, then another on the corner of her mouth. He drew back, giving himself space to observe the effects of his actions.

Rose's eyelids fluttered open, and Sherlock's heart warmed to see the beginnings of a smile on her lips.

"Morning," he said, in a low drawl.

Rose's smiled widened. "Hello." She stretched a little, taking in her surroundings, then sunk lower onto the pillow as if to resettle herself. Resting a light hand on Sherlock's arm, she added, with a morning croak in her voice, "I like waking up in your bedroom."

Sherlock's chest swelled, and the corners of his lips stretched wide.

"I like having you wake up in my bedroom, too."

He bent down and gently brushed Rose's lips with his. Her lips were soft and warm from sleep, yet so giving. He resisted the urge to press his desires onto her just yet.

But when he carefully eased back, Rose asked, "May I go back to sleep now?"

Sherlock didn't think that was a good idea, and he let Rose know via the two creases that appeared in his brow.

"I'm running a bath for you."

"That's lovely," Rose replied, closing her eyes again. She rolled to her side, and exhaled deeply, signalling one who wasn't far from sleep. "Let me know when it's ready."

Sherlock hovered for a moment, in two minds about prodding her awake again. He still wanted Rose to wake up and hang out with him, but in the end, all he decided to do was to press one last kiss to her temple.

"It's almost ready," he said in a low voice. "I'll make you a cup of tea."

Rose hummed agreeably, but kept her eyes firmly shut. Sherlock was pleased to see a hint of a smile on her face still. Satisfied that she had woken in a good mood, Sherlock rose from the bed and made for the door.

"Sherlock."

Rose had rolled onto her back and fully completed the smile she had begun earlier. "Will you be joining me?"

It wasn't really a question; her raised eyebrow expressed that this was an invitation. And a promise for something more.

"I'll let you get settled in first," he replied, trying desperately to ignore the heat pooling down below. "And I'll wait until you've finished your tea, which, according to my estimations," he added, folding in his upper lip as he tried to recall the relevant data, "takes on average fifteen minutes."

Rose's eyes sparkled in amusement. She drew in the pillow Sherlock had abandoned earlier and hugged it to herself. He gave her a quick wink, then left the bedroom for the kitchen.

* * *

Rose gave herself a few minutes to wake fully, then stretched and yawned before leaving the bed. She noted that the bathtub was almost ready, so she attended to her toileting needs before unlocking both bathroom doors, and opening the door to the bedroom. It was a routine she and Sherlock had established on the nights she used to retire to his after her Saturday night shifts at the Rendezvous strip club. It gave her privacy from the passageway to the kitchen, but easy access for Sherlock to deliver her cup of tea while also bringing in a chair from the bedroom upon which her tea could sit.

Sighing against the welcoming warmth of the bath water, Rose slipped beneath the suds. She reached forward and turned off both taps. She had just finished rinsing off the soap when Sherlock hastened in with her tea.

"Perfect timing," she said.

"I do keep an internal clock on your bathing routine. Of sorts."

"Thank you."

They exchanged warm, familiar smiles then Sherlock left the room. As promised, fifteen minutes later, he returned to the bathroom and removed Rose's now empty tea cup and the chair. He quietly undressed in the bedroom. Rose knew Sherlock would already be semi-aroused and semi-embarrassed about it, so she slid forward in the bathtub, drawing her knees up to her chest. When she heard him entering the bathroom behind her, she grabbed the loofah and pretended her knees still required attention.

"I've saved you the best spot," she said casually, without turning around.

Behind her, Sherlock cleared his throat. She felt him lower himself into the tub.

"Christ!"

"Sorry," Rose said, quirking an unapologetic smile. "I topped up the hot water. I thought it had lost a bit of its potency."

"Potency? Are you trying to turn us into soup?"

Another tiny laugh escaped Rose, while Sherlock merely sighed. Whether out of contentment or exasperation, Rose couldn't tell. After Sherlock's legs appeared on either side of her, she backed up a little.

"Uh... Rose..."

"Don't worry," she said demurely, as she pressed herself up against him. "If you weren't, I'd be quite insulted." Rose would never tire of Sherlock's sometime awkwardness about his libido.

She felt Sherlock relax and he banded his arms around her. Rose dropped her head back against his shoulder and handed him the loofah. He quietly tended to her needs as he had done many times before. Rose fought back the flutterings of anxiety. She had vowed not to think about what tomorrow would bring, or, rather, what she would drag into tomorrow, kicking and screaming.

* * *

Sherlock listened to Rose's soft mewls of pleasure. He rearranged them both onto the now damp bedsheets. She clutched at his hair with one hand and twisted the loose sheet with the other. Sherlock knew he had her. When he stretched out on top of her, she was already arching and straining against him, completely responsive under him. The pressure was glorious.

When pleasure swamped them both, they then lay sated and spent, amid a tangle of limbs.

Sherlock remained in that position for quite some time, with his nose buried in the crook of Rose's neck, and his arm hanging loosely over Rose's torso, despite his previous preference not to be touched in the moments post-coitus. Rose had threaded her fingers through his and gave him a gentle squeeze.

"Just need the loo," she whispered.

In Rose's absence, Sherlock roused, dressed himself properly in trousers and a button-up shirt, and made his way into the kitchen. He expected Rose to emerge at some point. Gone were the days of lolling about together in the living room dressed only in pyjamas and dressing gowns. The risk of being interrupted by either the landlady or prospective clients was too great, especially since today was Thursday and not Sunday. To keep Mrs Hudson from speculating otherwise, Rose still had her cover of being Sherlock's sometime-counsellor. It made sense if the mental health professional was dressed appropriately.

Sherlock had just finished boiling the kettle when Rose emerged from his bedroom. He quickly scanned her, noting her attire consisting of a sensible, just-above-the-knee skirt and one of her work blouses, and she was carrying a pair of heels. It seemed she had received the memo.

Rose didn't meet his gaze, but instead immediately embraced Sherlock, slipping her arms around his waist and resting her cheek on his chest. Sherlock was unsure how to respond, other than to return her hug. He couldn't be sure, but he thought Rose's eyes looked particularly moist. He wondered if she had been crying in the bathroom. What could that be about?

"This is lovely," she whispered.

Sherlock tolerated the hugging for a second or two longer than he usually would when he was otherwise preoccupied. He tapped Rose's back affectionately and said, "Okay. Tea will be ready in a minute. Would you like some toast?"

"Yes, please," she replied. She left him for the living room, still not making eye contact.

Sherlock thought he heard her sniff from over by his desk.

"Are you getting over your... cold?" he asked. He had deduced the evening before that she had, in fact, been nursing a minor ailment in the past twenty-four hours as she had claimed during their phone conversation.

"Almost," she called back. "Can I use your laptop? I just want to reply to a couple of emails. I hate typing on my phone."

Sherlock hummed in agreement, unconcerned if Rose heard him or not. Her request was more or less a statement of intention anyway.

He popped two slices of bread into the toaster and brought the cups of tea into the living room.

"What would you like on your toast?" he asked, placing Rose's tea cup beside the computer. He glanced at the screen—a work-related email. Dull.

Rose continued typing, with her eyes fixed firmly on her message. "What do you have?"

"Ah... nothing."

Rose's fingers froze on the keyboard. She finally looked up at him, and Sherlock was relieved to find a hint of amusement on her features.

"But..." he added, "I can go downstairs and borrow something from Mrs Hudson."

"Jam will be fine," Rose said finally, turning back to her emails.

Sherlock swiftly exited his flat and just as quickly returned with a jar of strawberry jam, fresh from his landlady's larder. By this time, the toast had popped up.

"All done," Rose said, closing the lid on the laptop as Sherlock scrapped jam across the toast.

He listened as she sighed and carried her cup of tea across the rug. She sank into John Watson's old armchair and quietly sipped her tea.

Sherlock delivered her breakfast in quick time, placing the plate onto the table beside her chair. He took his seat opposite, sans toast, and fixed her with a broad grin.

"Thank you," she said, the beginnings of a smile on her lips. "You've really outdone yourself this morning."

"I certainly have," Sherlock replied, reaching for his own cuppa.

"In fact," Rose said, lifting the plate from the table, "I'd say this is the equivalent of you hunting a wild boar, building yourself a fire, then roasting the animal over a spit."

"You forgot disembowelling. I've actually done that."

"Okay," she said, her eyebrows arching in protest. She dropped her gaze to examine one half of her toast, before taking a bite of it.

"It's rather interesting how everything comes tumbling out," Sherlock continued. "You'd actually assume the intest—"

"Sherlock," Rose said, her mouth still full. She slowly shook her head.

"But you eat meat."

Rose swallowed her mouthful, then said, "And I'm one cute anecdote away from becoming a vegetarian."

She chuckled lightly at her own quip, prompting Sherlock to rumble out a closed-mouth laugh of his own. He took another sip of tea, then noticed Rose squinting a little at her piece of toast before taking another bite.

"What's wrong?"

She chewed her mouthful for a moment, then swallowed. "No butter?"

"Did you want butter?"

Rose smiled at him in response before finally telling him it was fine. Sherlock tutted and rolled his eyes. She was just as fussy as John.

"So, what are you up to today?" Rose asked.

"Oh," Sherlock replied, heaving out a sigh. "Whatever comes up. Spend time with you in between." He gifted Rose with another broad smile and was relieved to receive one in return.

"Any new cases?"

Sherlock reached into his trouser pocket and drew out his phone.

"There were a couple of new ones this morning. They only rate a three as far as I'm concerned."

He leant forward and handed Rose his phone. She carefully read each email as Sherlock sipped his tea in silence.

Finally she held out the phone and said, "I've already solved the first one."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at her and closely scrutinised her expression. Of course she hadn't solved it.

"Internal or external?" he asked.

"External... ish."

"Can't have 'ish.'"

"Well, external to the family then."

Sherlock lightly rotated his phone in his palm as he kept his gaze fixed on Rose. "Planned or opportunistic?"

"Opportunistic."

"Why?"

"The open window."

A smile grew on Sherlock's face. "Very good. What else?"

He made himself comfortable in his chair and listened as Rose explained about the content of the stolen manuscripts and how they held historical relevance to the manor house. Since the gardener's family had a long service history with the estate, then he must have seen something significant in the documents to have wanted to steal them.

"Excellent," Sherlock remarked, steepling his fingertips together and lightly touching them to his lips. "But you've missed something important."

"What?"

"The gardener's wife."

"What about her?"

"Her illness. Huge medical bills. The documents mean nothing to the gardener. He'd get a fortune selling them though."

Rose swallowed her last mouthful of toast and said, with a frown, "So, I was wrong?"

"Completely."

Sherlock immediately stood, and retrieved the empty tea cups from both their side tables. Rose tutted at the result as Sherlock took the dishes to the kitchen sink.

"If it wasn't for the interesting fact that the gardener had one leg shorter than the other," Sherlock added, piling the dishes into the sink, "I would've rated it a one at most."

"Well, I was close," Rose said, joining Sherlock in the kitchen with her plate.

" _Close_ doesn't cut it in my line of work." He took the plate from Rose. "There's no such thing as _almost_ solving a case."

"I'll wash them," Rose said, indicating the now full sink.

"Nope." Sherlock gently steered her away. "We're not spending our day together doing dishes."

"There's not many."

Sherlock ushered Rose into a chair by the kitchen table.

"No. We're going to have fun. Now... when was the last time anyone took a buccal swab of your epithelial cells?"

* * *

The highschool biology lesson using a compound microscope to examine Rose's cheek cells and later her blood cells was undertaken with a lot of laughter and little concentration on Rose's behalf. Sherlock found that although she _claimed_ to know the rudiments of chess, she couldn't actually play with any real skill or foresight. Deducing passersby in the street through the living room window yielded only wild speculation by Rose and not any accurate observations of note. Sherlock solved another case via email, while Rose read extracts from a hefty anthropological tome on cannibalism from the eighteenth to the twenty-first centuries, and gave her own armchair psychologist's assessment.

Their rather entertaining morning of mentally-rich activities was eventually interrupted by the landlady. Rose took to sitting innocently on the couch, slipping on her heels in quick time, before Sherlock opened the door.

"Just checking if you need any more milk," Mrs Hudson said, after whispering an apology for interrupting Sherlock's _you-know-what._ "I'm just going to the shop around the corner. I seem to have run out of jam. The funny thing is—"

"Yes. Milk. Thank you," Sherlock said, swiftly shutting the door on the woman.

"Why didn't you tell her you borrowed the jam?" Rose said in a loud whisper after hearing Mrs Hudson's footsteps dying away on the stairs.

"And spend several more seconds of my life listening to her witless babble?"

"That's disrespectful, Sherlock."

"No, I suppose you're right. I really should allow her to speak, but have her on semi-permanent mute."

Sherlock cocked his head at the sound of the front door closing. A tiny spark of mischief lit his eyes as he turned to face Rose.

"How about Cluedo?"

Mrs Hudson's guaranteed absence for about half an hour was a good enough opportunity for the pair to do something naughty in the living room, Sherlock decided. They could ignore the doorbell, should any clients show up. And they'd be done and dusted by the time the landlady returned.

"Miss Scarlett," Sherlock read, his heart quickening as he turned over the cards placed in front of him, "with the lead pipe... in the billiard room."

"Oh, yes!" Rose said, jumping up from the couch. "We've never had the billiard room before!"

Sherlock quickly scanned the living area, hoping something would prompt him to remember what they had allocated as the billiard room. Rose was already across the floor to the fireplace.

Indicating Sherlock's chair, she said, "Remember, your chair is the library, and the billiard room is across from the library." Rose gestured to John's old armchair.

All the oxygen in Sherlock's immediate vicinity was sucked into a void of nothingness.

"Ah..."

There was an odd ringing in his ears.

"Come on," Rose said, crossing the rug and taking the reluctant Consulting Detective by the hand. "This is all about you now."

Sherlock couldn't function properly. He didn't want to sit in John's chair. He didn't want to have his trousers unzipped by Rose while he sat in this specific chair, and he was even more against the idea of Miss Scarlett and her lead pipe doing him in the billiard room. His stammers and half-hearted suggestions to try a better location went unheard.

He'd make her stop before he became too aroused, he thought as Rose straddled him and was navigating the soft tissue about his neck and shoulders. Or... he'd get her to cease and desist before she took him in her mouth, he decided, once Rose had deftly unbuttoned his shirt in her journey southward. By the time she reached the waters she'd expertly navigated on many occasions, Sherlock couldn't hear his thoughts over the roar of the ocean.

Rose was already away from him before Sherlock could really register what had happened. She had at the very least tucked him in again. The detective-genius leapt from the chair once realisation dawned. He zipped himself up, blood leeching from his face. He was pacing, his heart thumping erratically when Rose returned from the bathroom, smoothing out her skirt.

"Are you okay?" she asked.

"Of course I'm not!"

After madly gesturing and wearing the carpet thin with his pacing, he was able to become coherent enough to at least hint to Rose that he was uncomfortable with the whole concept of ejaculating in the place his former flatmate used to sit on a regular basis. He was finally stopped by Rose's gentle hand on his arm. She placed the flat of her palm on his chest and said, "You poor thing; your heart's racing!"

"Of course it's racing!" He tapped his temple with the heel of his hand, his voice half a decibel below shouting. "I need oxygen! How am I supposed to solve this!"

To Rose's credit, Sherlock thought in hindsight, she didn't demand he calm down, nor tell him he was being silly. She reached out and ran her fingers through his hair, just above his ear.

"I'll help you, okay? Let me help."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed to slits as he carefully scrutinised Rose and _that mouth_ that had assisted in his undoing only moments earlier.

Rose drew away from him, but clasped one of his hands in hers.

"Come sit down," she beckoned, pulling him toward the sofa.

"No. I need to move."

He pulled his hand out of hers, and preceded to do just that. Move.

Rose sat down anyway, and patted the seat next to her. "You're using up more oxygen that way. It's going into your muscles, instead of your brain. Sit down."

She still spoke very patiently to him, he noted, as if she had just walked into the room and discovered an agitated stranger, and not a man who had just been sucked off until he came while sitting in his (apparent) best friend's chair.

Rose fixed him with a pleasant smile again, and ran her hand over the space next to her.

"Just sit with me for a minute," she said. "Or even better," she added, grabbing a nearby cushion and positioning it on her lap, "lie down."

Sherlock lightly placed one hand on his hip and said, "Are you serious?" He gestured with the other toward the offending armchair. "I've just told you how this whole… incident has corrupted this entire living area, and you want me to lie down."

"Yes," Rose replied, her expression unaffected by Sherlock's steely-eyed gaze. "Just for a minute." When Sherlock continued to challenge her with his eyes, Rose added, "It will correct the imbalance of oxygen in your brain. Then you'll be able to think again and solve this… issue."

Sherlock remained where he was. Surely she was mocking him now.

"All right," he said finally. "But just so you know, I'm quite immune to psychological mumbo jumbo."

A tiny laugh escaped Rose as Sherlock took his place, stretching out along the sofa with his head atop the cushion on her lap.

"Are you going to do that soothing thing," he said, waving his hand above his head, "with your fingers in my hair?"

"Eventually," Rose said. But she placed a light hand onto Sherlock's forehead. "Just close your eyes."

"Rose…"

"And concentrate on your breathing."

Sherlock exhaled heavily, then muttered, "This is rubbish." But he closed his eyes anyway.

"Maintain a steady—"

"I _do_ know how to breathe."

Rose telling him to concentrate on his breathing did make Sherlock aware that his rate of inhaling and exhaling was noticeably high for one who was now reclined. So he made a point of counting for a few seconds on his next breath. But he wasn't doing it because she had asked him to. Not at all.

"Now I'm going to count to ten…"

"Completely unnecessary, Rose."

"By the time I reach three, your eyelids…"

Sherlock tuned out. His eyelids would not feel heavy by the count of three. He could open them if he wanted to. But he didn't want to, at the moment, because he was concentrating on his breathing wasn't he? He could wander through his Mind Palace all by himself, without a chaperone, because he was completely in charge of his own mental meanderings, thank you very much, Rose.

He didn't need Rose to tell him to walk further than he had ventured before. He knew behind which doors he could locate these so-called 'happy memories' she had wanted him to find.

_Rose._

_Obvious._ _Rose is behind this door._

_I'm too recent in your list of happy moments, Sherlock_ , the Rose-memory said. Or had it been the real Rose? _We_ _'v_ _e_ _had_ _too many experiences together that are… complicated. Go deeper._

Sherlock turned down several corridors, hoping that Rose was following him. The décor became older, familiar. Off to one side, behind a set of closed double doors, came a faint bark.

 _Redbeard_ , Sherlock murmured to himself. A tiny smile ghosted his lips.

But his eyes snapped open. He wasn't doing this here and now. His breathing was slow and easy; his limbs felt heavy. Rose was staring down at him, smiling.

"Did you find something in your Mind Palace to help calm you down?"

"My mind is clear," Sherlock replied, carefully side-stepping the question. "Oxygen levels restored." He sat up abruptly, almost headbutting Rose in the process. "And I've solved my dilemma."

"What dilemma?" Rose asked as Sherlock stood up.

"Come on, Rose," he said, striding across the living room. "Help me carry John's armchair upstairs."

"What?"

* * *

Rose placed her phone down onto the bedside table.

"All good?" Sherlock asked.

"Yes. Tonya said the ceiling is completely spotless now."

"Good." He held out an arm, inviting Rose to snuggle into his chest.

As she settled in with a sigh, she added, "I'll just make sure I don't throw any wild parties over the weekend before Monday's inspection."

Sherlock hummed in agreement, closing his eyes. "And no more toking inside the flat."

They lay together in a comfortable silence for a few minutes. Rose wasn't feeling particularly sleepy. It was too early for bed on a normal night. Since she would have to wake at around three in the wee hours to get home before dawn, they had decided that retiring early would be the sensible approach. And retiring early had commenced with snuggling in Sherlock's armchair after they'd demolished the dinner they'd ordered in from the Chinese restaurant around the corner.

"And where am I supposed to sit?" Rose had asked Sherlock after he'd taken to his armchair across from the vacant spot where John's chair formerly sat. He held out one arm. His answer had been obvious.

After an intense period of snogging in Sherlock's armchair, they'd taken their antics to the bedroom, where they luxuriated in a slow session of love making. They'd then dressed in pyjamas, attended to their toileting needs and settled under the covers, with Rose deciding to check up on the cleaning status of her flat by ringing Tonya Small.

Rose closed her eyes and breathed in Sherlock's scent. She felt Sherlock's chest rise and fall in a steady rhythm. She wondered what he had retrieved from his Mind Palace to aid him in calming down earlier. When she had instructed him to wander further into his memories to seek out the pleasant ones, she hadn't expected him to murmur, after a few seconds, ' _Rose._ ' Her heart had tripped over itself upon hearing her own name. After tomorrow, she had thought, Rosemarie Sulford would no longer be a pleasant memory, so she told him to continue on. He'd said something after a fashion, but she hadn't caught the word. She'd hoped by accessing the memory once, he'd find it easier to retrieve when he needed to calm down in the future.

Getting rid of John's chair seemed a bit of an overreaction, but she didn't say that to Sherlock. It wasn't as if they'd soiled the fabric. Sherlock had remained dressed in his shirt and trousers the entire time! She'd only made him more... accessible.

And it was a very awkward moment standing in John's old bedroom after they had struggled upstairs with the heavy piece of furniture. Of course Sherlock had noticed her discomfort as her eyes flickered toward the mattress now stripped of its linen and covered with a protective plastic sheet. His uncensored thoughts on the matter came tumbling out. As to be expected.

"Oh... right," he said, gesturing toward the bed. "You and John. Probably a good thing he passed out then, hey?" And then Sherlock had chuckled, prompting Rose to tut and immediately stalk out of the tiny bedroom.

It had been a wonderful day, despite the underlying sense of impending doom Rose was constantly attempting to ignore. Sherlock only mentioned _Janine_ on one occasion, with Rose remaining perfectly composed.

Sherlock had received an email from one of Tonya Small's contacts in the late afternoon. The message contained a virtual tour and a three-dimensional schematic of Charles Augustus Magnussen's private residence.

"An unassailable fortress, Rose. But this area underneath the house that isn't made clear in the blueprints is more than likely a vault in which Magnussen stores all the dirt he has on people. I just need to find out from Janine what his movements are over the next week or so."

"A fortress? Sounds a bit dangerous."

"Oh, by the way I've told her I have a sponsor... you know, for my drug addiction. That can be your cover, if ever there's a connection made from you to me."

"A sponsor?"

Sherlock had quietly studied his screen for a few more seconds before suddenly asking, "How about afternoon tea?" His mind still seemed preoccupied but he had busied himself organising tea and crumpets, as he had initially promised Rose the other day. The crumpets, of course, he'd acquired from his landlady. Rose didn't want to press him further about her new occupation of being his rehab sponsor. She didn't want to linger any longer than necessary on the subject of the case that required him to pretend to date another woman.

As they lay in the stillness of Sherlock's bedroom, Rose felt Sherlock lightly caress his thumb the length of her arm. So he was as awake as she was, lost in his own thoughts, probably returning to Lady Smallwood's case, Rose surmised.

"I'll come with you," Sherlock said eventually, his voice breaking the silence.

"Come where?"

"When you leave for home at 3am."

Rose turned to look up at Sherlock, whose features were barely visible in the darkened bedroom.

"You don't need to. I don't mind catching a—"

"Or you could stay."

"Sherlock."

"No, Rose, hear me out."

Rose swallowed the uncomfortable lump that had formed in her throat. Sherlock rearranged himself, folding his arm behind his head. Rose moved away from him and sat up, facing him, but grateful that he wouldn't be able to see the anxiety on her face.

"When we were upstairs in John—" He paused to clear his throat before correcting himself. "—the _spare room,_ I began to visualise all of your possessions in there."

"Oh... Sherlock," Rose said breathily, her heart sinking.

"You wouldn't need the bed, of course. But you could use the room while you're studying, or when you want to have a break from my ramblings..."

"No..."

"You said so yourself. You're going to have a problem paying the rent and your parents are moving to Scotland. Your work hours will be reduced so you can study, come September. Sharing the rent here will be more affordable. You just have to—"

"You know why I can't stay here," she said, her muscles tensing. "Or be seen here."

"That's what I'm trying to say." Sherlock reached for Rose's hand. "By September, this case will be a distant memory. Magnussen wouldn't care about me and my personal life anymore. Some other hapless bastard will be his focus."

"But it's not just Magnussen is it?" Rose countered. "There's the rest of the media industry and anybody ever interested in digging up dirt on people in the public eye. Didn't you ever read what they used to write about you and John?"

"No, I never cared to. John used to make a fuss about it, though."

"Exactly."

"But you're not John."

"And I'm not _you._ "

Sherlock didn't immediately respond, and Rose was hoping he didn't find an insult in her statement. She carefully removed her hand from his and swallowed hard. This conversation required a little more than just words, so she moved to the edge of the bed and turned on the bedside lamp.

"John and I are the type of people that care a little about what others think of us," she said, initially staring at the lamp stand. Sherlock clucked his tongue prompting Rose to turn her gaze to him. "If they see a woman constantly in the company of the famous Sherlock Holmes," she continued, "they'll be more than just a little curious as to who she is and where she came from, don't you think? And I'm not sure how long the rehab sponsor cover will last."

"And so they investigate you. And getting beyond your status as a post-graduate student of Forensic Psychology and sometime rehab sponsor they may stumble upon the little fact of you working in a brothel. How that affects you has a lot to do with whether you care what people think or not. So we should train you to care a whole lot less."

"Are you joking?" Her expression hardened. "It's... it's about personal and professional integrity. It's about being respected in my own profession, among my peers, and potential clients. It's caring what my family and close friends think of me. It's caring how other people treat _my_ family. Are you going to train the whole fucking world not to care?"

"That would make a nice change."

Rose shook her head lightly at Sherlock's nonchalant attitude. "At one stage," she said, "the world thought you were a fake and a fraud. If you hadn't faked your own suicide, did you think you'd ever receive another case again? Why would people come to you for help if they read that about you in the papers? Why would anyone want to hire me? What other people think matters, Sherlock." Her voice crackled toward the end.

She reached across and switched off the lamp. Her eyes stung, and adrenalin coursed through her veins. This was the conversation—the debate—they were supposed to have tomorrow, when Rose was going to announce to Sherlock that she was breaking up with him. But they were having it now. Rose's heart thumped dully in her chest, and she fought against the enormous pressure building up behind her eyes. She didn't want to break up with him right now. In her mind it was all leading to that event, though.

Now that the stage was set, she could always start the conversation tomorrow with, " _I was thinking about what we were talking about last night. Actually, I've been thinking about this a lot, even before our conversation..._ " And she'd go from there. But breaking up with Sherlock right now was not the wonderful conclusion to the day she'd initially set out to enjoy.

Rose lay back down again, facing the edge of the bed and wishing Sherlock hadn't started the conversation in the first place. She heard him shuffling closer behind her.

"I'm sorry," he began, his voice thick and gravelly, which made Rose's insides flood with shame. "I just want to make you happy." He banded an arm around Rose, curling his body behind her. Rose's next breath shuddered from her lungs. "You just seemed happy today," he went on, his voice now warming her insides, "and us living together is an obvious solution, for me, anyway. I'm sorry I disregarded your feelings."

It was too much for Rose, and her tears betrayed her, falling freely. She tried to discreetly sniff, but trying to hide her reaction was all in vain. She turned around in Sherlock's embrace so she could face him.

"And I _was_ happy today." She reached for him and lightly skimmed his cheekbone with her thumb. "I _am_ happy. Thank you. You made this the perfect day for me. For us. I'm glad I took the day off. For twenty-four hours it was just the two of us alone in the world..."

"With the occasional visit from Mrs Hudson."

Rose's light laughter floated throughout the darkness accompanied by Sherlock's deep-throated rumble. When their laughter died away, Sherlock narrowed the gap between them and pressed a tender kiss to Rose's lips. She let him linger a moment, then drew away, asking, "Do you love me?"

"Yes," came his immediate reply, just a whisper away from her lips.

"And I love you," she replied automatically. "And I always will." Before further tears threatened to spill, she whispered again, "Always."


	59. All Right, Shezza?

Sherlock clutched at his chest, his heart-rate sprinting the final twenty metres of a steeplechase.

" _Christ!_ "

Billy turned to him. "All right, Shezza?"

"God, no. What have you done to me?"

Sherlock bent double, his face turning red.

"Are you 'avin' one-a those heart attacks or summin'?"

Sherlock gently lowered himself to the floor. Knees, then hands. His heart continued thundering.

"Maybe I shoulda changed it a bit," Billy casually offered. "Y'got no tolerance."

"You think?" Sherlock said, his voice straining as he bowed his head.

Lying down on the old college kitchen floor seemed like a good idea. He could feel the pulse in his neck echoing the same protests as his heart. Every object about him appeared with razor-sharp edges, and every hue took on a new vibrancy. But it was the sensations in his own body that caused the greatest alarm.

"All right. I'll getcha summin' else."

"An ambulance perhaps."

"Are y'tachycardic?"

Sherlock closed his eyes briefly as he lay flat on his back and concentrated on his breathing. His chest felt like a great weight had descended on it. Then Wiggins' cold, thin fingers encircled his wrist. Too cold, like handcuffs of steel. Sherlock abruptly pulled his arm away.

"Not dangerously high," he snapped, opening his eyes once more.

Sherlock felt for his radial pulse. After fifteen seconds and confirming that he wasn't about to rupture something he brought both hands to rest on his abdomen.

"I'll check again in five minutes," Sherlock said, wrinkling his nose as every odour of each piece of furniture, chemical, and fabric in the near vicinity reached his nostrils.

"Just say the word," Billy said, straightening up from his crouched position next to Sherlock, "and I kin ring 999. It's all part of the service."

"Service," Sherlock said derisively.

"Yep. At the top of the list is ring emergency. Get y'to A&E. No more messin' about with benzos or nuffin'."

"Thank Christ for that."

Half an hour later, Sherlock was pacing along the row between the kitchen counters behind Billy. He'd just finished brushing dust and debris from the back of his jacket while his trusty chemist made up a take home solution as per Sherlock's instructions and after adjusting the recipe to suit the detective-addict's lower tolerance levels.

At that moment, Sherlock felt particularly brilliant.

* * *

Rose eyed the second hand as it made yet another circuit on the clock mounted on the office wall. Gus had just 'gone to the loo' and Rose had five more minutes left on her shift. She could finish early this afternoon as she had opened the shop in the morning.

She was dog-tired because she hadn't gone back to sleep after leaving Sherlock's in the early hours. And even if she had been on a later shift, there was no way she could have gone back to sleep when her thoughts weighed heavily on what she had decided to do this evening. Every hour that passed during her work day was one step closer to seeing Sherlock again. Her spirits sank lower and lower with each tick of the clock.

Sherlock had assured her he'd go around to hers much later that night as he had a few things to do, people to see, corpses to poke at. She knew he'd be home sporadically throughout the evening, and that was what she had been counting on. She didn't want to break up with him when Sherlock was at hers; he'd never leave then. If she did it as his, she could at least walk out on him. She'd done that before. It had been particularly heart-breaking the last time, but on this occasion, she didn't intend to return.

At exactly four o'clock, Rose entered her finish time in the log book. Without waiting for her 'superior' to get back from his session, she left the home entertainment store for the bus stop. Although the journey would normally take fifteen minutes by tube, Rose had to extend the journey to ensure she wasn't followed. She would also use the time to change her appearance via one of the facilities along the way.

Finally, she reached 221 Baker Street now dressed in an old hoody and jeans as opposed to her smart business skirt, blouse, and jacket and carrying a large shopping bag in which she had stowed her regular handbag and work clothes. She let herself in and swiftly closed the door behind her. The front passageway at the bottom of the stairs was dimly lit and Rose lifted her sunglasses and rested them on top of her head. It took a few seconds for her to comprehend the sight that lay before her.

A figure—a man—lay in a crumpled heap on the first step. A man in a long grey wool coat. His mop of black curls rested on bent arms halfway up the staircase, and he seemed to be sleeping rather peacefully.

Rose overcame her initial shock and took several steps forward.

"Sherlock?" she said, bending down and gently shaking him by his shoulder. "Sherlock," she said again when he failed to respond. She crouched down beside him on the bottom steps.

The world's only Consulting Detective slowly raised his head to Rose's relief. As his glassy-eyed slits came to rest on her face, Sherlock's mouth slowly split into a broad, sleepy grin.

"Rosie," he said, reaching for her. "Hello." And then he snorted out a laugh. "Why are you dressed like that?"

Rose regarded Sherlock's semi-absent expression. The burden she had carried all day fell away from her. There was no way she could end their relationship with him in this state. _What state?_ But relief flooded through her and her eyes moistened. She reached up and cupped one hand to his cheek.

"Sherlock."

"Hello, Rosie," he said, his intoxicated grin still in place. "Have you come to visit me again?"

"Yes, I have," she said, every nerve-ending in her body poised for loving this stupid, silly man. She wanted to hug him and kiss him, for disrupting the awful task she'd come here to undertake. But why had he ended up like this? For some reason, it didn't seem to surprise her, really. But first things first. "We should go upstairs, though. Can you stand?"

Sherlock tried to sit up, but upon straightening his legs and attempting to raise himself up, one foot slipped, removing his purchase on the first step and he slid two steps downwards.

"I'm... f-fine..." he said, somewhat breathily upon landing inelegantly on his bottom again.

"Here," Rose said, depositing her shopping bag on the ground beside the stairs. "Move over to the bannister... There." Rose puffed a little as she coordinated moving Sherlock's uncooperative body toward the other side of the staircase so he could hold on while she supported him with his other arm wrapped around her shoulders. "Okay, can you climb? One foot in front of the other... there. That's it."

They made slow progress, with Sherlock attempting to offer his new dimensional views on the public transport system, his landlady's penchant for dusting, Rose's attire, and something about _Willy's_ inability to read instructions. Rose offered noises of encouragement every so often.

When they finally crossed the threshold into Sherlock's living room, Rose directed Sherlock to his sofa. He more or less collapsed onto it, almost dragging Rose down with him. She disentangled herself from his sloppy embrace and stood over him, breathing heavily after her physical exertion and examining him from head to toe.

"Let's get you out of your coat," she said finally.

She wrestled the long grey coat from him for what seemed like an unnecessarily long time, with Sherlock snorting out a laugh now and again. After she'd taken it from him, Rose moved over to the living room door to hang it up.

"What have you taken?" she asked, making her way back to Sherlock. She sat on the coffee table, facing him. "This doesn't seem like a coke high."

"Oh, cocaine," he said with disdain, now fully reclined and idly waving a hand in the air. " _Willy_ almost killed me with all this other... stuff."

"Who?"

"Willy... Willy... Biggins... Willy Biggins... Baggins? Biggy... Wiggy..."

"Billy?"

Sherlock weakly chuckled again and limply beckoned for Rose to come closer. Although kind of relieved that she didn't have to break up with Sherlock just yet, a lead weight still materialised in the pit of her stomach at this new state of affairs. Rose shifted from the coffee table to the edge of the sofa.

"What did Billy give you?" she said, running a gentle hand through Sherlock's wayward curls.

Sherlock fumbled around in his jacket pocket.

"I have... s-some...thing," he murmured, reaching for the other pocket. "Ah!" he exclaimed in delight, withdrawing a folded piece of paper.

Rose took it from him and read the contents, frowning in confusion. She recognised cocaine, naturally, and 'a morphine-derivative', whatever that was, but not the other items, some of which were chemical symbols and not names at all.

"What's this?" she asked Sherlock.

"A list," he replied, grinning broadly as if he was proud of his efforts. "For my brother, but... shhh!" he added, raising a finger to his lips then plucking the paper from Rose's hands. "He can't know yet."

Rose sighed wearily as Sherlock pocketed the list.

"So this… this boutique speedball is for your brother's benefit?"

Sherlock scrunched up his face.

"No... no... no!"

"Then... why? It's not for your... _case..._ is it?"

Sherlock didn't respond, only to grin again. It was rather alarming, all those drugs, the chemicals, when presented in such a thorough list, she thought.

"So why did you actually have to take the stuff? I thought you were going to buy it, and experiment on it. Not actually _use_ it. Not get Billy to mix up some kind of... I don't understand why you'd do this to yourself... what if a client had walked in on you? Or Mrs Hudson?"

Sherlock shushed Rose again, as if she were revealing his secret just by talking about it. But then Rose realised he had probably heard what she also had... the front door clicking shut.

Rose leapt up and strode to the landing. She heard the sharp click-clack of heels at the foot of the stairs, and then a loud tread followed by muffled swearing. She took a step back toward the living room door, in two minds about shutting themselves away, or intercepting the potential client on the stairwell and preventing them from seeing Sherlock Holmes in his current state.

Rose's hesitation was her loss, for a female rounded the corner in quick time.

"Oh... hi," the woman said, spying Rose above her, and grinning sheepishly. She vaguely waved the pair of high heels she now held in her hand. "Broken another pair on those damn stairs," she added.

Rose's eyes widened as the woman continued ascending the stairs confidently, her stockinged feet silent on the steps. She looked familiar, but...

"Did... did you want to see... Mr Holmes?" Rose asked, her heart-rate accelerating. She hoped like hell that this wasn't who she thought it was. And she didn't remember Sherlock mentioning she was Irish.

"Yeah," the woman replied, tilting her head as she tried to peer past Rose.

Rose took a step toward the top of the landing in a weak attempt at blocking the view to the reclined detective-genius.

"Are you a client?" she asked, feebly.

"God, no," the woman said, with a hint of a laugh. "Sherl?" she called, looking past Rose once more as she neared the top of the stairs.

_Sherl?_

Rose had no choice but to move aside when the woman, who Rose now assumed was _Janine_ , came bustling past.

"He's just..."

Rose didn't know what else to say. She concluded that Sherlock's little experiment with a wide concoction of illegal substances was purely for Janine's benefit to pass onto Magnussen, perhaps. So this was the _people to see, corpses to poke at_ that Sherlock was referring to for his Friday evening's activities.

Rose's heart hammered in her chest as Janine entered the living room.

"What have you done to yerself?" the pseudo-girlfriend asked. Rose didn't fail to notice the affection in the woman's tone.

Rose hovered in the doorway, unsure of her own role now.

"He's... um..."

Just like the time she had accidentally encountered Mary in Sherlock's flat, Rose was unable to think on her feet.

Sherlock had looked up at Janine, then beyond his new visitor toward Rose. He rumbled out a laugh at the scene that lay before him.

"Oh, Sherl," Janine lamented.

"He'll be okay," Rose hastened to add.

Janine spun around, and directed an unimpressed glare at Rose.

"I'm sorry, but... who are you?"

Rose dragged her eyes from Janine's accusatory ones, to Sherlock's glassy, beady ones. He chuckled again as if he was enjoying the show.

"I'm..."

Janine placed her hands on her hips, thus stealing all authority in the room. She tilted her head at Rose, prompting Rose to instantly hate her. Now Janine was on the inside, and Rose was the intruder standing on the landing and having to explain herself.

"I'm... his..."

She glanced back at Sherlock again.

"Hello," he said, waving a limp hand at her.

Rose frowned, then met Janine's eyes once more. "… his … sponsor."

A shadow crossed Janine's face, and she narrowed her eyes at Rose. Taking two steps toward the door, the Irish beauty said, "Well, I'm his girlfriend." Rose felt a dull stab to her heart, and her breath stuttered on the way in. "And I know what kind of sponsor y'are," Janine added icily. "I'll take over from here."

Janine reached over and immediately shut the living room door in Rose's face. Rose couldn't move for a few seconds, her muscles were left paralysed by the turn of events.

Through the door she heard, "Sherl, you loon. What have you done?" A loud thud resounded, as if something had dropped onto the coffee table. "Well, I've broken another pair," came Janine's voice. "Looks like you're not in a state to fix them, though."

When Rose heard Sherlock rumbling out another laugh, she blinked, as if coming out of her stunned trance. The murmurings and further laughter emanating through the closed door prickled her skin. She turned toward the stairs, catching her breath as she grasped the top of the bannister. A fierce heat had spread across her cheeks, but she didn't know whether she wanted to laugh or cry. She had now confirmed her cover for being in Sherlock's company—his rehab sponsor—but it didn't matter anymore.

He had a new girlfriend—someone who didn't seem to mind what state he was in. A girlfriend that didn't appear to have a seedy past; a girlfriend that would look amazing on the front pages of a newspaper, should anyone come digging.

Rose forced herself to descend the stairs. Every step became easier, as if the burden of breaking up with Sherlock was lightening with every tread.

He now had a shoulder to cry on. Whatever he thought of Janine, whatever phony feelings he displayed toward her, he'd get beyond them in time. It was possible, Rose reasoned, for him to develop genuine feelings for the executive assistant eventually. He had already developed an attachment to his one-time paid sex worker, hadn't he? Now anything was possible!

Rose fought against the intense feelings of jealousy as she retrieved her shopping bag from the bottom of the stairwell. She could now replace them with relief, with hope. Sherlock had someone else to care for him, to help him through the emotional battering she was about to deliver. Sherlock would get over her, eventually, in Janine's company.

Rose, however, would never let Sherlock out of her heart.

* * *

"I'm sorry," Sherlock said, his head bowed, a cup of coffee in front of him, and Janine's light touch on his arm. His high was wearing off, but he was lucid enough to remember that while high, he hadn't blown his cover. He wasn't sure what had happened to Rose though. He did recall she had stated she was his sponsor. Clever girl. But why had she appeared here in the first place?

"But you weren't here," he continued confessing to Janine, allowing wretchedness to dominate his voice.

"Oh, Sherl," Janine responded, predictably. "You know I was just a phone call away. You can call me any time. You know that."

"This week has been particularly bad. I just couldn't... cope."

And on and on it went. Contrite Sherlock; comforting girlfriend; ineffective sponsor. Janine played right into his hands. Eventually, coming out of his chemically-induced fog, Sherlock decided he needed to have a bath.

"And I have to get going," Janine said. "It would be nice to get into my own place. You picked up the keys to my flat for me, remember?"

"Oh... yes," Sherlock said, slowly rising from the sofa and padding over to the door where his coat hung.

He reached into his coat pocket, retrieved the keys, then handed them to Janine. He waited, expectantly, for her to gift him with one of her intimate farewells.

"I'll come back later?" she said, "I'll bring dinner. You should eat something."

Sherlock gave her a weak smile.

"Thank you," he said. "For being here." He maintained eye contact as Janine moved closer and attached herself to his lapels. "You know," he began, his voice taking a rough edge to lend it some integrity, "You're the only person who really knows me."

Janine began to visibly melt at his words. Was it really this easy?

"Except for John," he added, wanting to include an element of truth. "But..." Sherlock appeared to struggle for the right words. "But even he didn't ever see me like this... At my lowest."

Janine reached up and caressed his cheek. She was far too close for comfort, but it helped that Sherlock wasn't as sober as he'd normally be. This was almost... tolerable.

"Well, I might keep your secret," she said, a tiny smile on her lips. "Or I might go to the papers."

"A crying detective doesn't really sell newspapers."

"Well, I'll have to make something up then."

Sherlock huffed a tiny laugh, before he ducked his head and beat Janine to the kiss.

Having Janine Hawkins witness him in a pathetic state had been crucial in his bid to have Magnussen think the detective was a drug addict and therefore no serious threat. But there were moments during the day, particularly this morning, when he had second-guessed himself. Was this really all for a case? The switch from his usual D.O.C. of cocaine, a stimulant, to a concoction of opioid-dominated substances had happened far too easily. He almost welcomed the effect the drugs had on him. The dull ache whenever he thought about Rose lessened somewhat, giving him a brief respite from all of those... _feelings._

When Janine returned with Chinese food from the place around the corner later that evening, Sherlock rambled on about having no cases, except for the one he had discarded weeks ago: Lady Smallwood and her husband's letters.

"No, Sherl, you can't take on Charles; he'd eat you alive!" Janine protested.

"It's all I have left. If I don't have any work..." he replied, trailing off and letting the silence speak for him.

He deftly changed the subject, only to bring it up again later in the evening while he was fixing Janine's second pair of shoes.

"How hard can it be?" he asked, waving the shoe around. "All Lady Smallwood wants is to negotiate the return of her husband's letters. I'm only going to act as an intermediary."

"Look at the state of yourself," Janine scolded him. "You can't take on a man like Charles."

Silence descended on the pair as Sherlock pretended to brood while he repaired the heels.

Eventually, he said, "Set up a meeting." He handed Janine her re-heeled stiletto. "I just want to talk to him about the letters."

"You can't. You almost missed the edge of the table with my shoe. You're not as mentally sharp as you usually are."

"Not right now," Sherlock argued. "Next week some time. I promise I won't touch anything else. I'll stay on the wagon. Or off the wagon... or wherever I'm supposed to be in relation to the wagon."

A tiny laugh escaped Janine. "I don't know about that."

Sherlock had retired to his armchair when Janine went to clear away the Chinese food containers. When she returned to the living room and stood in the place John's armchair used to be, she took one look at Sherlock sitting comfortably and asked, "So... I'll just sit all the way over there, shall I?"

Sherlock glanced up at her, and calculated.

This was a similar conversation he'd had with Rose yesterday. If ever there was a standard measurement for regret, a pang just wouldn't be adequate enough to describe the sharp pains Sherlock felt internally at that moment.

But he continued with the pantomime. He was getting so close to the end now. Holding out one arm—just as he had done with Rose—he silently invited Janine to sit in his lap for a session of cuddling. He had decided that he needed to facilitate a little more physical intimacy with Janine in order to get his own way.

Cuddling. Not snogging.

Janine made herself comfortable in Sherlock's lap. Sherlock made himself _look_ comfortable with the whole idea.

He gently rubbed a hand along the length of her arm.

"I will be fine," he said, imploring her with moist eyes. "I can handle myself around someone like Magnussen, Janine. My bingeing days are over. Definitely, over."

Janine's pupils were well-dilated now, so Sherlock went in for the kill. He raised his hand and cupped the nape of Janine's neck, studying her eyes, before moving to her mouth. He heard her sharp intake of breath as he laid a light kiss on her lips.

With his mouth still hovering over hers, he whispered, "And I know you'll be there for me, just a phone call away, but…" He kept his eyes locked on hers as he put distance between them. "I need this case right now."

Janine appeared to study his eyes—eyes that Sherlock had expertly manipulated into reflecting sincerity. Finally, she sighed, then went on to advise Sherlock that she and Charles would be away from Saturday afternoon until Wednesday, so she would try to make an appointment for Sherlock with her boss for a timeslot on Thursday.

"But not Thursday evening," she added. "We've got an important meeting with the Marketing Group of Great Britain."

"Thursday it is then," Sherlock said, suppressing a satisfied smile. He noted how easily it was for Janine to impart confidential information about her boss's movements these days.

"So I'm going to be away all week," Janine said, her face awash with concern. "Are y'going to be okay with that?"

Sherlock bowed his head sorrowfully. "I'll ring you if I... have any problems." He cleared his throat, straightened up. "But now, if you'll excuse me, I need to use the bathroom."

It was a weak excuse to rid himself of Janine and her awkward position on his lap. By Janine's light-hearted chuckle as she climbed from him, he gathered that she assumed his discomfort was caused by something else entirely.

He steered the rest of the evening around benign conversation interspersed with continuing the fictional anecdotes about his childhood. When the hour grew late and Janine yawned, Sherlock manufactured a mild panic.

"You're not going to leave now, are you?"

"Do you want me to stay?"

It was relatively easy getting Janine to stay over, to cement the notion that he was in a delicate mental state. He offered her a shirt since she didn't have any other clothes with her, and once more gave up his bed because he was quite content to sleep on the sofa. He allowed her goodnight kisses to linger before she retired to his bedroom. Sherlock stretched out on the cushions, wondering when he should hightail it to Rose's.

He never made it. It was dawn the next time Sherlock opened his eyes. Wearily, he took himself to the bathroom and had a long soak in the tub. And when Janine gave a cursory knock and entered on his insistence, he allowed her to stoop down to give him another goodbye kiss. He playfully scooped up a handful of bubbles, and plopped them onto her nose as Rose had done to him a long time ago. Janine yelped in surprise and he emitted a deep-throated chuckle.

Sherlock Holmes had well and truly secured a place in Janine Hawkins' heart. That much was obvious. But why couldn't he use his talents to keep the girlfriend he actually loved? Why did he have this feeling that Rose was slipping further and further away?

Janine left his company with the assurance she'd ring later in the week to confirm his appointment with Magnussen. Sherlock promised her he'd stay away from mind-altering substances.

Fresh from the bath, and fully dressed for the day, Sherlock sent a text to Rose. As it was Saturday, he knew she'd be at work.

_I'm sorry about yesterday. Can I see you tonight? Your place or mine. Either will do. —SH_

Sherlock spent most of the day at Bart's. He even ignored a call from D.I. Lestrade, because he felt he couldn't focus on any one thing. Janine had been right. His mind wasn't as sharp as it usually was. His heart though… it commanded all his attention. He had a constant, ever-present ache—surely as a result of a faulty vagus nerve. Only Rose's presence and reassurances could alleviate the pain. That, or artificial substances. It was one or the other. No in between.

Rose's phone went straight through to her voicemail, but Sherlock didn't leave a message. He'd already sent her the text. He didn't feel the need to _sound_ desperate as well.

As he reflected on Friday evening's events, he realised how upset Rose had been. In his drug-induced euphoria, he had thought Rose and Janine meeting for the first time was a little bit funny. Now he didn't see the humour in it at all. And he remembered Janine referring to herself as his girlfriend. While he did credit Rose with a high level of intelligence, and hoped she'd know that only Janine believed she was in a relationship with Sherlock, he also remembered that Rose hadn't been privy to that level of detail in his plans to infiltrate Magnussen's inner sanctum. He'd only let Rose know about the coffee and dinner dates. And even then, he assured her they couldn't even be classed as 'dates.' He knew how this may have looked. But the kisses. She didn't know about the kisses... well, they were mostly one-sided. Definitely one-sided, with Sherlock taking a passive role.

It was now Saturday night, and Sherlock didn't want to spend another Sunday without snuggling with Rose. How had it come to this?

Sherlock slowly drew on his coat, preparing to leave Bart's where he had been wasting time watching mould grow. He knew, with a sinking heart, that Rose wouldn't be home even before he entered the flat. Why should she be? She was a relatively young woman, with some semblance of a social life on a Saturday night. A social life she found perfectly acceptable to have out in public with other people.

After confirming his suspicions, Sherlock took the most direct route possible to east London, to the doss house in Canning Town.

To his surprise, Rose wasn't there either.

Sherlock turned to leave, but behind him, a voice said, "Oh, good. Shezza. I made summin' you might be interested in."

* * *

Sherlock pulled up his collar and shivered against the crispness of the early morning. The sun hadn't made it over the tops of the buildings yet. He knew it wasn't the very next morning; it wasn't _Sunday_ morning. It couldn't be. He had vague memories of an entire day passing while he lay in a haze of dust, on an old mattress in the former lecture hall, with sunlight leaking in through the makeshift curtains at various stages. He was recuperating, mentally. That's what he had been doing. Mental health professionals would highly recommended the exercise, surely.

He made it to the main road and scanned up and down the street for signs of a cab. It was nowhere near peak hour on a Monday morning, but he knew he'd be able to flag one down eventually. Sherlock didn't dare to think how he must look. He intended going home, having a quick shower, making a beeline to Leinster Gardens and catching Rose before she left for work.

Hailing a cab and instructing the cabbie semi-coherently where to take him hadn't been too hard. Staring blankly at the door knocker and wondering if it had been straightened or if it was still slightly askew was a more difficult exercise through the window of the cab. Sherlock concluded that the knocker was _almost_ straight, so he bid the cabbie to drive on. If there was even the slightest chance that his brother was waiting for him in his flat just after five in the morning, then Sherlock couldn't risk it.

He quietly let himself into Rose's flat, not caring that he'd just asked the cabbie to deposit him just outside number 23. His body felt like lead. He had exhausted himself just travelling the distance from east London. He would lie down then, just for a minute, and wake Rose later.

* * *

Rose swiped at her phone to end the alarm. She stretched and yawned, then lay blinking slowly at the ceiling. Her bedroom window was open, and a gentle morning breeze made its way inside. It was going to be a warm one, Rose thought, flexing her toes and opting to lie in for a few minutes longer.

She managed to go an entire weekend without seeing Sherlock. Naturally, her thoughts drifted to him quite frequently. How could they not? The laughter that came through the door to the landing on Friday night still caused an icy claw to grip her heart. The week stretched out before her. When could she stomach seeing him again? When would she end this?

Concluding that she couldn't postpone the rest of her life forever, Rose slowly climbed out of bed, showered, dressed, made herself a cuppa, and stood, leaning against the kitchen counter biting into a piece of jam on toast. Her thoughts were all jumbled.

 _Oh, crap,_ she thought, glancing at her phone screen that sat on the counter. _Now_ she was going to be late.

Rose quickly gulped down the rest of her tea, then washed her dishes, dried them and put them away. Normally she wouldn't bother, but today she had an inspection by the property manager, and everything had to be perfect.

After running her eyes around the kitchen one last time, Rose grabbed her handbag and went to retrieve her coat from the living room.

She froze for a moment out of non-comprehension.

"Sherlock?" she said, racing toward the lump curled up on her sofa, his coat discarded on the living room floor. "Sherlock!" She dumped her bag onto the coffee table. Leaning over her soon-to-be ex-boyfriend, she shook him, only to be greeted with an incoherent rumble.

"You can't stay," she said, prodding him some more. "Wake up!"

Sherlock murmured and rolled onto his back.

"Sherlock!"

Rose straightened up, her heart-rate rising with panic. He couldn't stay here! She couldn't really expect the property manager to ignore the drugged-out boyfriend passed out on the sofa while he verified that there was no marijuana residue on the ceiling above it.

"Get up!"

She could always drag him upstairs to Tonya's, she thought, eyeing his very crumpled suit jacket. Had he been like that all weekend? Rose decided she didn't even want Tonya Small to see the detective-genius in this state.

"Rosie."

Sherlock was looking at her through slitted eyes.

"You have to leave, Sherlock! I've got the property manager coming this morning, remember?"

Something like a tut resounded from Sherlock's vicinity, and he petulantly turned to his side to face the back of the sofa.

"Are you fucking kidding me?"

Rose felt like kicking him in the backside.

"Get... up!" she said, shoving him in the back. Sighing, she sank onto the sofa behind his legs, and leant into him. _For fuck's sake,_ she thought, reaching for her bag. Time to call in the expert.

Rose rapidly dialled Billy's number, listened to it going straight to his voicemail, hung up, then dialled again. Whenever Billy had his phone on _Do Not Disturb,_ Rose knew she could ring him again straight away and her call would invariably get through.

"Billy!" she exclaimed breathlessly when he answered. "Are you doing anything right now? Yes, I'm sorry. I know it's early." Rose quickly explained the situation to her friend, asking him if he minded coming over to fetch one very high Sherlock Holmes before nine o'clock. "And Billy," she said, eyeing Sherlock's creased suit. She had swiftly determined that Sherlock Holmes in his current state (or any state really) shouldn't be seen leaving her flat. He needed to be incognito. "Could he borrow some of your clothes?"

After telling Billy she'd leave her keys underneath the welcome mat outside for him, she ended the call. She really had to leave for work now. With this in mind, Rose leant over Sherlock, and rested her chin on his arm.

 _Sherlock,_ she thought, reaching over and carding her fingers through his hair. _Why are you doing this to yourself?_


	60. What Case Could Possibly Justify This?

Rose bowed her head and briefly closed her eyes as she waited for a response to her knocking. In the distance, she could hear a constant hammering. Finally the door, with its welcoming "Private Property Keep Out" sign, opened before her.

"Oh, 'ay, Rosie."

"Hi, Billy," Rose said, with a deep sigh. "Is Sherlock still here?"

"Oh, yeah," her friend replied, standing aside to allow Rose to enter. "'e's upstairs. Bit manic, 'e is."

"What? Why?" she asked, handing Billy her obligatory bag of groceries.

Billy eagerly eyed the contents of the bag, momentarily distracted. The hammering persisted, echoing throughout the building.

"Oh... 'e's fixin' everything 'round 'ere. Side effect of..."

Billy abruptly stopped speaking when Rose narrowed her eyes at his words.

"Anyway," he continued. "You'll find 'im upstairs. Head towards the bangin'."

"Thanks, Billy."

She gave him a grim smile before they both proceeded along the ground floor corridor together.

"Cuppa tea, Rosie?" Billy asked, pausing at the stairwell hallway.

Rose smiled affectionately. He knew the routine once he'd spotted the milk and box of tea bags amongst the groceries she frequently purchased to bring around after work on occasion.

"That would be lovely."

Billy continued on toward the rear of the college to the kitchen, while Rose ascended the stairs. She passed by the lecture hall and headed in the direction of the hammering.

Stopping in front of a half-open window that overlooked a set of iron stairs on the outside of the building she saw him. Sherlock Holmes, dressed in one of Billy's old polo shirts and grey sweatpants, was standing on the landing nailing a makeshift door to a door opening. Rose waited until he paused his hammering to retrieve another nail that he held between his lips.

Leaning on the window ledge, she called out, "Hello, Mr Holmes."

Sherlock turned in surprise. A broad grin spread across his face when he recognised Rose, and he removed the remaining nails from his mouth.

"Oh, don't stop for me," Rose said.

"I'm nearly done."

Sherlock returned his attention to the door and placed the spare nails back between his lips. Rose watched as he hammered the remaining nails to the top of the door.

His work done, Sherlock sauntered over, throwing the hammer once in the air, where it completed a full revolution before he caught the handle again.

"Rotted away from its hinges," he said, nodding toward the replacement door, his eyes sparkling with enthusiasm. "And causing a nasty draught in the recreation room."

Rose chuckled lightly at Sherlock's description of the hall where all manner of drug addicts administered and slept off their drugs of choice as Bill Wiggins monitored their recovery.

"Could be a fire hazard," she said, "not being able to open it from the inside."

Sherlock turned back to admire his handywork.

"Nobody used it anyway, and it's not entirely secure. A hard shove from the inside will dislodge it. Still, it'll keep the wind, rain, and riff-raff out."

"I should think it'll keep the riff-raff _in._ "

Sherlock emitted a low chuckle, and Rose found herself relieved that he resembled his usual self, despite his current attire.

"Ah..." Sherlock said, turning his attention to a figure behind Rose. "Tea time."

Billy had appeared holding two mugs of tea. Sherlock deposited the hammer inside through the window.

"Thank you, Billy," Rose said, as her friend proffered the beverages to both Sherlock and Rose.

"Hold them a minute would you," Sherlock said to Billy through the open window. "Rose, just turn around."

"What for?"

Rose did as Sherlock had requested anyway. He instructed her to back up and perch herself on the window ledge. Reaching through and grasping her around the waist, he pulled her outside and onto the landing.

"O-kay," Rose said breathlessly.

Sherlock thanked Billy, telling him they'd take tea in the conservatory. Rose had no idea what Sherlock had meant by that, but she thanked Billy as well.

Billy left them to ascend the external staircase. Sherlock was already halfway up when Rose joined him. She followed him to the rooftop of the college, which held sporadic views of the nearby streets of Canning Town.

Sherlock perched himself on the rooftop ledge, placing the mugs of tea beside his feet. He rummaged in his pocket and drew out a crumpled packet of cigarettes. Rose grabbed her tea, taking a sip in silence next to him as Sherlock lit up.

"You've made this place your home away from home," she said, her eyes scanning the street below.

Sherlock remained silent as he dragged on his cigarette. His own gaze was fixed on the building across the street.

Eventually, he said, "I need to avoid my brother at all costs. At least until the case is over."

Rose lifted her eyes to Sherlock. "Why?"

"Isn't it obvious?" he replied, meeting her gaze at last.

Rose's eyes dropped to Sherlock's attire. She took in his mussed hair and unshaven jawline.

"You don't want him to see you like this?"

"Yes. That, and the fact that I think he has some kind of connection to Magnussen. I don't want him to dissuade me from going up against him."

Rose didn't respond. Her chest tightened whenever she thought of Sherlock and his case. She stared, unseeing into the distance, sipping her tea and feeling the warmth of the late afternoon sun on her shoulders. The summer sun remained high in the sky and Rose could feel it beginning to bite the back of her neck. She pulled at the elastic in her pony-tail, and let her hair tumble to her shoulders.

"Rose," Sherlock said in a low voice. He had been watching her. "About… Friday night..."

Rose sighed, slid from the ledge and said, "I'm going to sit in the shade for a bit."

She made her way to a chimney stack, and sat down, making herself comfortable on the rooftop within the chimney's cool shadow. She watched as Sherlock left his perch to join her, bringing over his own mug of tea, his burning ember still pinched between his fingers. He took a seat beside her.

"Janine seems nice," Rose said, maintaining a steady voice. She didn't know why she felt the need to make this comment.

"She's playing right into my hands."

Sherlock took one final drag on his cigarette, then stubbed out the remainder on the ground beside him. He sipped from his mug, prompting Rose to do the same.

"She'll be back on Thursday," Sherlock continued. "I think I may use that evening as an opportunity to poke around Magnussen's office for Lady Smallwood's letters."

Rose exhaled a little too audibly.

"He'll be in a meeting... a dinner, actually," Sherlock said, unperturbed. "I can just get Janine—"

"Well, that's great. I hope you solve the case soon. Lady Smallwood's lucky to have you working so diligently on it for her."

Rose immediately regretted her cutting remark as silence enveloped them. After an eternity of seconds, Sherlock cleared his throat and the awkward silence simultaneously.

"I know you think I shouldn't have taken this case," he said, causing a delicate flush to cross Rose's cheeks. "And that my only priority should've been the removal of John Garvie from Magnussen's line of sight, but…" Rose could feel Sherlock's gaze on her, and she refused to meet his eyes. "Magnussen is repulsive, Rose. You know that. What he did to you, he... more or less did the same to Lady Smallwood."

Rose's breath caught in her throat, and she felt her stomach churning monstrously as Sherlock continued speaking.

"He preys on people's secrets for his own gain—to increase his wealth and power. He takes an almost leisurely pace in tormenting them. I can't idly stand by while he inflicts his filthy presence on others and makes his greedy demands."

Sherlock reached for Rose's hand; she finally locked her eyes on his.

"But I want nothing more than to have this case over and done with," he said, "to get our Sundays back. And it can be just the two of us again."

Rose fought against the unbearable pressure behind her eyes. They began to moisten anyway with every second that Sherlock's expression remained expectant. The warmth of his hand was comforting. Such a small gesture but it went straight to her heart.

It took all her willpower to keep from pleading with him to make everything different, to relieve her of all her concerns. She had to keep her next request simple.

"I'd like that, too," she replied, her voice thick with emotion.

Her tears threatened to spill as Sherlock's arms banded around her. Silent streams ran down her face as she hugged Sherlock and buried her face in the crook of his neck. Sherlock gently rubbed a hand along her back, as Rose felt an enormous weight lift from her.

"And next time," he said, "it'll be your turn to do nice things to me all day long."

A tiny laugh escaped Rose and she stayed where she was, in the security of Sherlock's firm embrace. Eventually, she lifted her head.

"No, I think you owe me a few more," she said, lifting a hand and wiping away now stagnant tears.

Sherlock gave Rose a half-smile.

"Perhaps we can alternate throughout the day."

Rose returned Sherlock's smile with a grateful one of her own. Sherlock reached up and cupped her face. Rose tilted her head to one side and met the light brush of Sherlock's lips with a contented sigh.

He tasted like tobacco and tea with a hint of delicious Sherlockian spice that clouded her mind. His mouth slid with well-practised skill over hers, and Rose's hands found their way into Sherlock's hair. All of her doubts fell away. It was here, now, on a rooftop of a drug den that she realised that their strange encounters, dates, and hangouts were what made their relationship all the more special and unique. He was like a drug she had to have, and no matter how hard she tried to distance herself from him, she found his pull and attraction far greater.

But when Sherlock's kiss demanded a whole lot more, Rose gently eased back.

"Not here," she whispered.

It was still broad daylight. There were two buildings opposite whose windows easily provided dress circle views of their little romantic interlude.

"Stay with me tonight," Sherlock said, desire etched into the timbre of his voice.

"I can't stay here," Rose replied. "I've got an early start with opening the shop."

Sherlock released his hold on Rose, his mouth showing the beginnings of a petulant pout.

"Can't you come to mine?" Rose asked.

"I've got work to do."

This surprised Rose. In his current getup, Sherlock didn't exactly give the impression of a working Consulting Detective.

Sherlock grabbed his empty mug and suddenly stood.

"Loads more repairs to make before we lose daylight."

He offered a hand to Rose.

"Really?" Rose asked, grasping Sherlock's hand and allowing him to assist her to her feet.

Sherlock immediately strode away from her toward the stairwell. He called back, "Rewiring the extractor fan in the kitchen, installing a light fitting in the bathroom..."

Rose didn't catch the last few items as their heavy treads on the wrought-iron staircase drowned out Sherlock's voice. She didn't care to know anyway; the details were meaningless to her.

Sherlock was already through the window by the time Rose caught up to him on the landing. Awkwardly, she positioned herself on the window ledge as Sherlock pulled her back through.

"Have you ever heard of parkour?" he asked, quickly making tracks along the corridor.

"Um... yes... I think."

Sherlock glanced back at Rose and frowned.

"You might like to think about taking lessons if you ever want to keep up with me."

Rose rolled her eyes at Sherlock's rapidly retreating back.

 _Or take a hit of cocaine_ , she thought darkly.

By the time she joined Sherlock in the kitchen, he was already standing on the counter top and examining the extractor fan unit.

"It's not working very efficiently," he murmured more to himself than Rose.

Rose deposited her bag on to the counter then grabbed the mug that Sherlock had discarded. She began washing both his and hers.

"I think I might go home now," she said loudly over the noise of the fan being switched on and off.

Sherlock turned and suddenly leapt to the ground. In two quick strides he was beside her. His lonely lover look was back.

"I thought you were going to stay the night?"

"I never said that."

Sherlock's eyes carefully scrutinised her, as if she were trying to mislead him in some way.

"But..." Rose began, attempting to stifle a laugh, "I could just go and get changed, then bring dinner back. But I won't stay all night."

Sherlock's intense gaze remained unwavering for a moment before he blinked and said, "Good. Can I borrow your phone?"

Rose was still disoriented by his rapid mood swings, but she reached into her bag anyway.

"My phone battery's dead," Sherlock explained as he rapidly typed on Rose's phone. "I need to check my voicemail."

He held the phone to his ear as Rose waited. He listened for a moment, before a look of disappointment graced his features. He handed Rose her phone back and said, "Check for messages later. Dial the number I just did. My PIN is 1895."

Sherlock was up and away from Rose again before she could even say, "Um..."

"I'm waiting to hear from Janine," he explained from his perch on the counter top once more. "To confirm my meeting with Magnussen." He twisted around to look down at Rose. "You don't mind do you?"

"Billy's got a charger up in his room," Rose offered.

Sherlock turned back to his little project and said, "I'll charge it later. Just check throughout the evening. Report back to me when you return."

Rose raised a brow at Sherlock's commands. And it seemed as if she had been dismissed. She turned to leave, shaking her head to herself. When she reached the front door, she was suddenly spun around and thrust hard against it. Rose yelped in surprise. A manic detective-genius with a rather intense look in his eyes had her pressed up against the door.

"You didn't say goodbye," he said.

Rose began to chuckle at Sherlock's overly-dramatic actions. When deep furrows appeared between his brows, her laughter only increased. Her shoulders shook as Sherlock continued to gaze down at her with an unimpressed expression on his face. Her light laughter rose and fell, echoing throughout the entrance.

When finally it had reduced to a tiny chuckle, Sherlock said, "Well?"

Stifling another round of giggles, Rose said, "Goodbye, Sherlock."

Again, he carefully studied her eyes before he returned her sentiment. He punctuated his goodbye with a light kiss. After drawing back he said, "And?"

Rose had to rein in her mirth. She buried it deep and asked, perfectly composed, "Do you love me?"

"Yes," he said, as if he'd had to wait patiently for Rose to act sensibly just so he could express that emotion.

"I love you, too," she said, hoping her expression now bore the full weight of the emotion she felt.

Sherlock's face softened and he pressed yet another kiss to Rose's lips. Rose's eyes fluttered shut, but she felt nothing but cool air as Sherlock just as quickly disappeared.

* * *

Rose's return took far longer than she had anticipated. She had changed into comfortable jeans and an old shirt back in her flat, perfect for blending into the streets of Canning Town, and more specifically as a visitor to Billy's drug den. Before returning to east London, though, she navigated a few out of the way streets to deposit Sherlock's coat and suit in his flat.

She caught the tube to east London, some distance away from Canning Town, and ordered food from an Indian restaurant. While she waited, she rang the number for Sherlock's voicemail. Her heart began to beat the rhythm of a jealous lover when she heard Janine's affectionate tone.

" _Sherl, I really hope you're out solving crimes. Just checking in to see how y'are. Ring me back when you get a chance_. _If I don't hear from you, I might have to find someone else to fix my heels._ "

Rose's insides churned at whatever their private joke was. And _checking in?_ Rose never just _checked in_ on Sherlock. Would he even want her to?

Rose took the final leg of her journey by bus, stopping a few blocks from Billy's. It was well and truly dark by the time she knocked on the door. She thought she really ought to get a key cut so she didn't have to keep bothering Billy all the time.

"Oh, 'ay, Rosie," Billy said upon opening the door.

He escorted Rose to the stairwell and it was his silence that Rose found particularly telling.

"What's Sherlock up to now?" she asked. The lack of Sherlock's normally huge presence and the silence in the rest of the drug den was slightly disconcerting.

"'e's upstairs," Billy replied, his expression typically not giving anything away.

"Fixing something else?" Rose asked, already dreading the answer.

"Not exactly."

Billy followed Rose the rest of the way up until they reached the large opening to the lecture hall, or 'recreation room' as Sherlock had called it.

"'e's over in the corner," Billy said, gesturing, "havin' a nap."

"A nap?" Rose asked, directing a challenging glare to her friend.

Billy shrugged lightly. "Y'know... sleepin' off the... ah..."

"Here," Rose said, handing Billy the bag of Indian takeaway food. The lead weight in her stomach had returned. She had been hoping Sherlock would've grown tired playing doss house facilities manager and they'd get to wend their way through London again, all the way back to hers.

"What's this?" Billy asked.

"Sherlock's dinner," Rose said, peering through the semi-candlelit darkness to the immobile lump in the corner. "He won't be needing it."

"'ere," Billy said, handing the bag of food to a hooded figure in the centre of the room who was concentrating intently on heating a teaspoon over a candle.

"Don' bump me gear, Wigg," the young man said.

Rose ignored the exchange and made her way over to Sherlock as Billy dragged over a broken chair and opened up the food.

Disappointment drizzled through Rose as she sank beside Sherlock's bent knees onto the ragged, dusty mattress, which was loosely covered with a threadbare sheet. He was asleep on his side, curled up and now wearing a hooded jacket that Rose recognised as another item of Billy's clothing.

She stretched out a hand and ran her fingers through this curls.

"Sherlock," she said, sighing.

She was surprised when he immediately murmured something. Bending over him, she gave him a light kiss on his temple.

"Rosie," he said, and Rose's heart twinged. He wasn't just asleep, of course. He was in that stupid euphoric state, the one in which she'd found him at the bottom of his own staircase.

"Hello," she replied. "You didn't wait for me."

Sherlock hummed non-committedly, his eyes firmly shut.

Rose's body felt drained of energy and she stretched out alongside Sherlock. She continued carding her fingers through his hair, noticing the faint traces of a smile on his lips in the dim lighting. Eventually, Rose closed her own eyes and snuggled in closer to Sherlock, feeling his warmth. She could hear the odd murmurings of delight from the other occupants of the hall as they heartily tucked into the food she had brought to share with her boyfriend.

Finally, she'd had enough. She couldn't stay the night here, not when she had to open up the entertainment store so early in the morning. It would mean leaving Canning Town even earlier, just so she could get home to change.

She thought about contacting Sherlock tomorrow, to _check in_ and see if he was okay. Then she remembered his phone, and the out-of-charge battery. Checking Sherlock's pockets, she discovered that he still had his dead phone on him and hadn't taken it up to Billy's room to charge at all.

Rose left Sherlock and asked Billy for the key to unlock his room so she could put Sherlock's phone on to charge. When she returned, she gave Sherlock a final kiss goodbye. This time he didn't stir. His breathing was light and shallow; he was definitely asleep.

Rose sought out Billy again to say goodbye. He was stretched out on a sofa, toking, and philosophising with a fellow stoner. Billy insisted on walking Rose to the bus stop and waiting with her until the night bus arrived. Rose asked Billy to check on Sherlock's phone and to put it back into the detective's pocket once it had been fully charged. With a heavy heart, Rose left east London for home.

* * *

Rose checked her phone during her much-needed lunch break the next day. There were no messages from Sherlock. She had already sent him a text mid-morning asking him how he was; Rose was _checking in._ She then quickly dialled his voicemail. There was only one message, and the caller's voice gave Rose the chills. It was Sherlock's brother, the stuffy Mycroft Holmes telling Sherlock that their parents were having a wonderful time in Oklahoma. It was the way Mycroft had said, 'little brother' that made Rose's skin prickle. She hoped she'd never in her life encounter that man again. Poor Sherlock, she thought.

That afternoon, Rose stretched and yawned then buried her head in her arms resting on her desk. She didn't care that Gus sat just behind her, crunching his way through a bag of salted peanuts. It was five minutes to four, and she could escape this suffocating place and find out how Sherlock was.

As she sat on the tube headed for east London, she fiddled with her phone. She regretted not ringing Sherlock on her way to the station. She had figured she'd see him soon enough. But what if he was no longer at Billy's?

The second she was out of the station, she quickly dialled his number. It immediately went through to his voicemail service. Next she rang Billy.

"Is Sherlock there?" she asked, attempting to keep her panicked voice light and casual.

"Ah... um..." came Billy's nervous stammer. He was such a terrible liar. "'e's a bit... busy... with stuff."

"Can I speak to him?"

"Well, he's..."

In the background she heard Sherlock's voice.

" _Who is it?_ "

"It's Rosie," Billy responded.

" _Tell her I'm fine._ "

Sherlock had sounded distant, harried, and... well, occupied.

"Shezza said he's—"

"I heard," Rose replied. "I'll be there soon." Then, attempting to sound unaffected, she added, "Do you want anything from the shops?"

After picking up the jellybeans Billy requested, Rose couldn't get to the Canning Town doss house any faster. She tried to remain patient while waiting for Billy to let her in.

"'e's in the kitchen," Billy said, dispensing with their usual greeting and small talk. Billy knew when Rose was all business. They'd known each other long enough.

Sherlock was leaning with his back against the kitchen counter with his arms crossed watching a liquid slowly dripping through a filter when Rose entered the makeshift lab.

"Rose!" he said, pushing himself off the counter and immediately striding towards her. "You're here a lot these days."

"I could say the same about you," Rose said, furrowing her brow as Sherlock bowed his head to deliver a quick kiss on her cheek.

He held her by the arms and gently steered her out of the kitchen. Rose had the impression that he didn't want her in there.

Turning her around to face him, Sherlock said, "Now, Rose. I need you to get one of those access key cards. But not from a security guard as I had previously planned. If one of their cards go missing, there'd been an urgency in searching for it. Tonight, or tomorrow night; it doesn't matter. But I need it for Thursday night." He had spoken quickly and in a low voice as if he had originally summoned her for the purposes of this discussion.

"What?"

"Possibly one of the reception staff; there is a male staff member in that area. You can see for yourself; I left the personnel file in your flat after all."

"Sherlock! Wait. What are you talking about?"

"A key card, Rose, to access the CAM Global News office building. How hard is that to understand? We did discuss this."

"Weeks ago," she said. "But you've been getting cozy with Janine since then. Why can't you use hers?"

"Because stealing hers is like taking one from a security guard. They're too important. They access all areas."

"And I never said I'd do this in the first place."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at Rose then abruptly stalked away from her, raking an irate hand through his hair.

"There must be _some_ way... I can't go myself," he muttered, about-turning. He vaguely gestured in the direction of the kitchen as he paced. "I can't leave my work..."

Rose raised her eyebrows at the notion that whatever Sherlock and Billy had cooking in the kitchen Sherlock had referred to as his _work._

"Speaking of Janine," Rose said, watching Sherlock continuing to stride this way and that. "She left a message for you."

"What?" Sherlock said, stopping in his tracks. "Oh, that. Yes, I heard it."

"Right. So you _did_ have access to your phone."

"Of course I did. You charged the battery and instructed _Whats-his-name_ to put it back into my pocket. Well done there."

"So, why didn't you ring me?"

Sherlock gave up pacing and strode past Rose back into the kitchen.

"Because I was busy."

Rose followed him, her annoyance growing with every second that passed in the company of Sherlock and his current mood.

He spun around and blocked Rose's path.

"You can't be in here. There are delicate and important chemistry... thingies going on and you might contaminate them."

Rose placed her hands on her hips and looked about her.

" _I_ might contaminate them?" she asked, raking her eyes over Sherlock's dishevelled appearance and crazy, wild hair.

"Yes, you."

He placed light hands on her shoulders again, and turned her to face the doorway.

"Off you go. Go busy yourself doing something... busy. But keeping checking my messages. I might get too… distracted to check."

 _Distracted? More like high_ , she thought. But Rose gave up trying to argue with him. Instead, she went off to find Billy. She didn't want to admonish her friend. It really wasn't his fault that Sherlock had been using him to concoct some sort of designer druggie-allsorts. But she did want to tell Billy to cut off Sherlock's supply, if that was at all possible.

"Just... start running out of ingredients, or something," she said after finding Billy in the rec room.

"I'll try, Rosie. But Shezza's much too clever to fall for that, and I can't really lie to the bloke."

"Well, keep an eye on him then," Rose said wearily. She knew Billy would anyway. "And make sure his phone gets charged, and that he has it with him on occasion. Okay?"

Rose left without saying goodbye to Sherlock. She had hoped to receive a frantic phonecall from him stating this fact and was disappointed when she didn't. She made the difficult decision not to return to Billy's at all, until she at least heard from Sherlock.

All through the next day, she intermittently checked Sherlock's voicemail. There was a call from a Scotland Yard detective, whose name Rose recognised from a lifetime ago when she was asked to identify her friend Shelley's body. The D.I. just wanted to thank Sherlock for the tip off, and to let him know that an arrest was going to be made tomorrow. There was another call from a client, who was asking Sherlock if he could help her find her lost dog. Rose was relieved not to hear any more loving and concerned calls from Janine Hawkins.

Rose was on closing the shop that evening and had to race home to change and eat before commencing her Wednesday night counselling service with the ASXX. Just before 10pm, when Rose was having a tea break and once again about to check Sherlock's voicemail, her phone rang in her hand, causing her to almost spill her tea out of its styrofoam cup.

"Hello?" she said, her heart racing at seeing it was Sherlock's caller ID. She couldn't assume that the caller _was_ her boyfriend; it could just as well be Billy using Sherlock's phone.

"Rosie," came Sherlock's voice, a tad slower than usual.

And... _Rosie._ That could only mean one thing. Rose let out a weary sigh.

"Sherlock."

There was an alarming silence for a few seconds before Sherlock spoke again.

"Why aren't you here?"

She could hear the lost note in his voice and Rose deflated a little.

"Oh, Sherlock." She knew it was just the drugs talking, but her heart still went out to him all the same. "I'm at work," she said gently. "I'm counselling, remember?"

There was another stretch of silence before Sherlock said, "Okay," and then the call ended.

Rose fidgeted for the remainder of her shift. Disappointingly, there were no other walk-in clients, so she couldn't even distract herself with someone else's problems. She chatted to the other counsellor, Meg, in between her appointments, then helped close up the hall the ASXX used on a regular basis. Rose and Meg walked together to the tube, where they then caught separate trains. Rose only had a short journey to east London, but she still had to catch a night bus through Canning Town.

She rang Billy ahead of time so he could wait for her at the bus stop. She was relieved to see him and wasted no time in quizzing him about Sherlock's condition.

"Look, Rosie. 'e just has ta sleep it off."

Billy continued to toke on a joint as they walked along. He offered it to Rose. She shook her head, her mind still on Sherlock.

She said, "And then he wakes up, gets all hyper and has to do stuff, and then he crashes. And when he's all agitated, he has another hit. Is that what his days are like?"

Billy didn't immediately respond and took another drag.

"Y'know, Rosie, I don't judge people by what they use or when they use it. I just watch over them. Make sure they're all right."

"The difference is, Billy, everyone brings their own gear. Sherlock's got you cooking up something for him."

"But I don' mind. It's been years since anyone's apprecia'ed my particular skillset."

Rose sighed wearily as they neared the old college. Billy almost sounded proud. He was probably right. It had been a while since the stoner had dropped out of university, a Bachelor of Science left unfinished. If Sherlock Holmes appreciated her friend's talents, then that was high praise indeed.

Just as Billy and Rose entered the wrought iron gate in front of the college entrance, excited footfalls beat a path toward them.

"'ay, Isaac, Reece," Billy said as the pair came to a halt in front of him.

Rose recognised both lads as regular visitors to Billy's place.

"Hey, Wiggy," Reece said. "We got it, mate."

"Not out'ere," Billy said, and he immediately ushered them inside.

"The geezer did everyfing Shezza said 'e would," Reece said excitedly. "You shoulda seen Isaac. And we left the wallet under the table, so he would neva know it was nicked, just that 'e dropped it."

The pair laughed, sharing a private moment while Rose's chest tightened at the thought of whatever Sherlock— _Shezza_ —had organised them to do.

"Is Shezza gonna pay us now?" Isaac said as Reece handed something to Billy.

"I'm gonna pay ya," Billy replied. "In the kitchen, but don't touch anything til I get there."

Rose hovered in the entrance beside Billy, ready to quiz him on what had just gone down as the youths hightailed it to the kitchen.

"Here y'go, Rosie," Billy said, handing her the stolen item—a white key card. "Give that to Shezza. I just gotta fix up these guys."

Rose's heart sank. The key card she was supposed to acquire! And in her absence Sherlock had convinced these youths to do his dirty business for him.

Ruefully, she curled her hand around the card and headed upstairs. Once she'd reached the landing, she heard the thundering footsteps of the lads who had been given their payment. Something told Rose that Billy hadn't fixed them up with a bowl of cornflakes from the kitchen.

Rose settled near Sherlock's slumbering form once more. Isaac, Reece and Billy also entered the hall and took up places in the centre of the room around the almost permanent fixture of a guy sporting a green mohawk and reclining on the old sofa. Rose chose to ignore them.

"Hey there," she said softly, rubbing a gentle hand along Sherlock's arm. "The boys have got the key card you wanted." She waited a beat for a response from Sherlock. When he remained still and silent, she said, "So, I'll put it in your wallet. Okay?"

Rose reached over and patted Sherlock's pockets. When she found the bulge in his back pocket, using two fingers, she began to slide the wallet out. When Sherlock's hand suddenly grasped hers she yelped, then laughed lightly.

"It's just me," she said.

Sherlock released his grip and rolled to his back as Rose drew out the wallet.

"I've got the key card," she said again, holding it up before his slitted eyes. "I'm putting it in your wallet."

Rose found an empty slot inside Sherlock's wallet and slipped the key card inside. Sherlock had managed to rearrange himself into a sitting position and was watching her through heavy-lidded eyes.

"Where'd you get it?" he asked, in a barely coherent mumble.

"Reece and Isaac," Rose said, indicating the pair with a tilt of her head.

Sherlock blinked slowly and shuffled backwards so he could lean against the wall.

"I asked Billy to nick it."

"Well, he asked the boys to... so..." She sighed. "You've got it now. Here..." Rose handed Sherlock his wallet back. He fumbled around for a few seconds, concentrating on getting the wallet back into his sweatpants pocket.

"How are you?" Rose asked.

Sherlock gave her a weary smile.

"Feels like... swimming."

"Okay," she replied, not really comprehending. She reached out and ran an affectionate hand along his leg. "Can I get you anything? Tea, coffee... jellybeans?"

Sherlock slowly shook his head, then shuffled downwards again. Lying on his side, he held up an arm, which Rose took as an invitation to lie next to him. She slipped out of her shoes then made herself comfortable in Sherlock's embrace.

"Hang on a minute," she said, sitting up again.

Rose grabbed her phone from her bag and quickly set an alarm for the morning. She didn't mind staying a while since she was on a late start at the shop. Because of her shifts at the ASXX on Wednesday nights, she had asked if all of her Thursday shifts could be the later starts.

She lay down again in Sherlock's arms and closed her eyes when Sherlock began running his hand through her hair. She sighed contentedly and very soon fell asleep.

When her alarm woke her, she immediately swiped at her phone to shut it off. The hall was eerily quiet and all of the candles had either burned down or had been extinguished. Sherlock stirred beside her. To the light of her phone screen, Rose was able to slip her shoes back on and gather up her bag and jacket.

She twisted around to Sherlock, kissed his temple and whispered, "I'm going now."

She didn't expect him to wake up, but she felt him attempting to sit beside her.

"Oh, don't wake up," she said in a hoarse whisper.

"No," he replied, sitting up with bent knees and a bowed head. "It's still dark."

"It's okay," Rose said. "I just have to get home before my shift starts."

"No," Sherlock said again. "Not by yourself. I'll walk you to the bus stop."

Rose hadn't expected him to be so lucid, but her opinion changed a little when she saw Sherlock struggling to put his trainers on. Or Billy's trainers, or whoever they belonged to.

"Here, let me help."

It seemed to take them an extraordinarily long time to exit the house, with Sherlock accosting Billy for the key to the front door just so he could let himself back in. Finally they were out into the cool morning air. Sherlock had popped up the hood of his jacket and took Rose by the hand. They walked at a much slower pace than Rose was used to in Sherlock's presence.

They reached the bus stop and Sherlock dropped her hand. He stood with his head bowed and his hands in his pockets as if he was attempting to sleep while standing up. Rose slipped an arm around his.

"Perhaps you could go home today," she said, with hope in her voice. "Have a shower, get cleaned up. You'll feel much better."

"The case," Sherlock murmured and then he added, "My brother."

"Why don't you come to my place, then?"

Her words seemed to stir something inside Sherlock. He lifted his head a little and made a concerted effort to meet Rose's gaze.

"You were angry with me."

"What?" she asked, perplexed. "Oh." She realised what he was referring to. Reaching up to caress his cheek, she said, "That was because I had an inspection on Monday. It's all okay now. You can come over."

Sherlock blinked a couple of times and said again, "The case."

Rose's heart ached for the simpler times they'd once shared. She longed for those days again. Her anxiety about breaking up with Sherlock had practically disappeared, and in its place, her concern for his substance abuse. These last few days seemed to have no point to them. How was he justifying this behaviour to himself?

The headlights of the bus in the distance drew Sherlock's attention. Rose smoothed the flat of her palm against his chest and bowed her head, wishing everything was different. When she lifted her head once more, their eyes met and Rose attempted a smile.

"I love you," she said, feeling a twinge inside her chest.

"I love you, too," Sherlock immediately replied. His mouth formed an uneasy smile as well, as if he also knew that he was only capable of returning the sentiment when he was out of it.

Rose raised herself onto her toes and kissed Sherlock's lips. His mouth was immediately warm and responsive, but Rose kept it light and brief. Sherlock raised an arm to signal the bus and stepped away from Rose.

She felt lost, bereft, and anxious, but she boarded the bus anyway, without looking back.


	61. You Are a Heartless, Manipulative Bastard

The morning show on telly largely went unwatched by Rose who was lost in her own thoughts. She barely touched her toast, but sipped her tea slowly, her mug cradled in both hands. Her mind was permanently stuck on Sherlock and his substance abuse in recent days. Three days or six? That depended on whether Sherlock had continued using since Friday. He'd had Janine for company on Friday night so why had he turned up at Leinster Gardens high on a Monday morning? Because Janine had abandoned him over the weekend?

Since that first night Sherlock had come around, crashing on cocaine, Rose didn't feel as though she could make judgements on his drug use. Who was she to talk when she had quite often turned to marijuana to ease herself out of a difficult patch? But Sherlock had insisted his current use was purely for show. Perhaps that had been his intention on Friday, but the subsequent hits weren't displayed to his intended audience, just Rose and the sometime inhabitants of the drug den. Just who was he kidding?

Rose lowered the volume on the television and drained her cup of tea. She still had a couple of hours before she was due at work. Was it too early to  _check in_  on Sherlock? The time on the TV screen told her it was 7:21. Would he be awake yet?

Rose hoped he'd clean himself up today; after all, Janine was going to be back in town and he was supposed to meet Magnussen…

_Oh hell!_

Rose jumped up, realising she hadn't checked Sherlock's voicemail last night. He still hadn't received confirmation of his meeting with Magnussen from Janine, as far as she knew. He would probably check it himself, but what if he didn't wake up until the afternoon?

She strode to her bedroom and grabbed her phone from the bedside table. After dialling Sherlock's voicemail service and entering his PIN, she listened to the messages.

_You have three new messages and no saved messages. Message received yesterday, at eight twenty-two pm:_

" _Hi Sherl, I'm back early. Just lettin' you know I've booked you in for an eleven o'clock meetin' with Charles in his office tomorrow mornin'. Just give your name to reception first and they'll let you up. Ring me when you get this. I'll come 'round."_

 _Dammit_ , Rose thought, and she waited impatiently for the next message.

_Message received yesterday, at nine fifty-seven pm:_

" _Oh… hello Mister Holmes. I… got your number from your website, and I was wondering… if… um…"_

Rose swiftly hit delete.

_Message received yesterday, at ten seventeen pm:_

" _Well, Sherl. I don't know where y'are, but you definitely aren't here. Mrs Hudson let me in. I might stay the night and keep your bed warm for you. No need to ring back. I'll be the one curled up under the sheets. Just nudge me."_

_End of messages. Thank you for using the service. Please—_

Rose ended the call, her head buzzing and her chest tightening, making breathing difficult.

What does that mean,  _Nudge me_? A joke? Another private little  _fix-my-heels_  kind of quip? Rose sank down onto her bed. Just how close had Sherlock and Janine become that they could giggle behind closed doors, and Janine felt comfortable enough to invite herself to stay over, sleeping in Sherlock's bed, on a whim? This was Sherlock Holmes! How would he tolerate such forwardness?

_Nudge me? You fucking whore._

_No… not just Janine—Sherlock. You arsehole!_

_But is he?_

Rose flopped back onto the mattress, resting an arm on her forehead and closing her eyes. Her insides somersaulted and she wished,  _hoped_ , she was just over-reacting—that Janine Hawkins just had a wicked sense of humour and enjoyed teasing Sherlock about his lack of… what? Attention to her?

Rose brooded for quite some time before finally deciding that, in spite of Sherlock's questionable fidelity, she still had to let him know about the meeting. It was for Lady Smallwood and the recovery of her husband's letters, after all. Rose hated the thought of anyone else suffering under Magnussen's threats, even if the only chance at saving their reputation rested solely on the assistance of Sherlock Holmes.

 _Piece of shite_.

Rose sat up again and sighed wearily before composing a text to Sherlock. If he didn't ring her within the hour, then she'd phone Billy and get her friend to empty a bucket of cold water over Sherlock's head. That would wake him up.

* * *

Sherlock listened, one corner of his mouth curling into a smile, as his drug den companion deduced John Watson's cycling habits. Even though it didn't ease the tension in the lab, nor take the sting out of his cheeks from Molly Hooper's  _over-reaction_ to the results of his urine test, it did take the spotlight away from him for the moment.

"Not bad," he said.

"An' I further deduce," the young man added, prompting Sherlock to raise his eyebrows, "you've only started recently, because you've got a bit of chafing."

 _Ah, almost had it_ , Sherlock thought, before saying, "No, he's always walked like that. Remind me, what's your name again?"

Sherlock's handy chemist stammered out a few different versions of his name, before he landed on the one that Sherlock didn't object to.

"Nice observational skills,  _Billy_."

At that moment, Sherlock's phone trilled an alert. He exhaled heavily and retrieved his phone from his jacket pocket. Glancing at the screen, he saw that it was a text from Rose.

_Meeting confirmed with Magnussen at 11am_

"Ah, finally," he remarked, scanning the rest of her message, such that it was.

_Ring me as soon as you get this._

"Finally, what?" Molly asked.

 _Bit abrupt_ , Sherlock thought of Rose's request.

"Good news?" prompted Billy.

"Oh," Sherlock exclaimed, double-checking that the meeting was for this morning.  _11am_. "Excellent news. The best!" He started dialling Rose's number and decided to leave the lab for a moment so he could speak to her in private. Still, he felt the need to give the others an explanation, to really emphasise the point that his drug-taking was purely case-related. "There's every chance that my drug habit might hit the newspapers," he said, swiftly making for the door. "The game is on!" He brought his phone up to his ear and said, "Excuse me." He pulled on the door and glanced around at their stunned faces. "For a second!" he added facetiously, before slipping out into the corridor.

"Rose!" he said, the instant she answered.

"You got my message, obviously," Rose replied. Her voice was… flat, Sherlock thought.

"Yes. What did she say exactly? I presume it was Janine who left the message."

Sherlock could hear Rose's very audible sigh before she replied.

"She said she might stay the night in your flat. She wasn't impressed that you weren't there. Mrs Hudson let her—"

"No, I mean about the meeting."

Rose's silence was actually worse than her sigh, Sherlock thought. What had brought this on? Didn't they part ways quite lovingly at the bus stop in the early hours of the morning? At least that was how Sherlock remembered it, even in his drugged out state.

"She said she's booked you in for an eleven o'clock meeting in Magnussen's office. Give your name to reception when you arrive. That's all. Nothing else."

Sherlock's mind already began to wonder how Magnussen had taken Sherlock's request for a meeting. Did he quiz Janine about Sherlock? Did Janine reveal anything about their relationship?

"Sherlock," Rose said, in response to his apparent silence.

Mary, Billy, and Isaac came out of the lab at that moment, and Sherlock murmured to Rose, distractedly, "Yes, thank you for the information. I'll be in touch."

" _Sher_ —"

He ended the call, then crossed his arms in front of him. He began tapping his phone against his lips, deep in thought. Isaac and Billy passed him by, but Mary pulled up in front of him.

"Are you all right?" she asked.

"Yes, of course."

"Because, honestly, you look like shit, Sherlock," she added, smiling pleasantly.

"And as I keep saying, it's for a case."

"What case?" Mary asked, raising an eyebrow.

"One that is rapidly becoming more interesting by the minute."

"Do you need a hand?"

Sherlock came out of his reverie to carefully scrutinise Mary Watson.

"It's far too dangerous, Mary. I wouldn't think of pulling you along on a case in your condition."

The door to the lab opened again, and John came through it, before he was called back by Molly. Both Sherlock and Mary briefly glanced at the pair who were talking confidentially in the doorway.

"I wasn't talking about me," Mary said, turning back to Sherlock. "Too dangerous, you say?" Her eyes flickered toward her husband, and the faint smile on her lips told Sherlock all he needed to know.

"Clearly he needs to get out more," Sherlock said. "He's put on, what, six or seven pounds since the honeymoon?"

"Seven."

Sherlock exchanged a knowing glance with Mary.

Having John back in his life and working on a case with him—this case specifically—seemed to fill a void in Sherlock's life that he didn't know existed. There was only so much he could share with Rose, and she was constantly worrying about his welfare. That much was obvious. And Sherlock didn't know if he found Tonya Small entirely trustworthy.

Well, that settled it then. If he could get Mary to work on John's attitude toward him, but also highlight the danger factor of the case, he would be halfway there to regaining John's companionship. The other half had a lot to do with John's attitude toward Rose. Sherlock was sure that would all change after he convinced Rose to move into Baker Street with him.

"What's he doing later this evening?" Sherlock asked, deciding that tonight's task—breaking into Magnussen's office—was the perfect opener for recruiting John.

"Ah… probably nothing," Mary replied. "But I'll make sure he's available, if need be."

"Excellent."

* * *

Sherlock paced along the alleyway behind Roches Entertainment Store, just off the main street. He was glad to receive a reply from Rose, no matter how curt, to his request to meet him there during her lunch break. He had some shopping to do, and he needed her help. The store's security surveillance system didn't operate during business hours, Rose had once told him, so he was confident they could talk there in private.

His meeting with Magnussen hadn't quite gone to plan. But he had deduced the media giant's M.O. shortly after the man had strolled into Sherlock's flat, hours before their scheduled meeting. It was to throw Sherlock off his game. The comment about Redbeard came out of left field, though. After that remark, Sherlock had almost forgotten he was supposed to be scrutinising his opponent to find a weak spot.

Unfortunately, no such reading was forthcoming, and Sherlock was only left with his original idea: to take advantage of Magnussen's staff as his only weakness. Hence, full steam ahead with Sherlock's current plan. But there was one additional piece of information: Magnussen had brought Lady Smallwood's letters with him to London. Breaking into his office tonight was therefore of the utmost importance. The end of this case could be a few hours away.

Sherlock didn't have to wait long before Rose exited the store through the rear security door. She was wearing a lanyard around her neck with a photo identity card attached to a bunch of keys. She wasn't carrying her handbag, nor wearing her jacket. These two omissions plus the thinned-lipped, resigned smile she wore, told Sherlock she wasn't thrilled to spend her lunch break doing his bidding.

"Good to see you've decided to join the land of the living," Rose said. Her eyes made a point of taking in his attire, before they made their next point,  _I'm unimpressed by you_.

 _Why_? Sherlock wondered. He had expected Rose to be pleased that he'd cleaned himself up, bathed and shaved and dressed once more in his smart, tailored clothing.

"I'm... er..." He was thrown by her attitude and demeanour. Sherlock took a step forward and thought he should try a reset, for them both. "Hello, Rose," he said, reaching for her arms and bowing his head to plant a kiss on her lips.

Sherlock's kiss hit the corner of Rose's mouth when she turned her head away a fraction. Sherlock's insides twisted by the equivalent amount. He would continue with his endeavour, though, and analyse her gestures later, because he had work to do.

He cleared his throat and released Rose from his light grip. Best get it all out as quickly as possible, he thought.

"I'd like you to accompany me around the corner to the jeweller's shop by the intersection. I intend proposing to Janine tonight as a means to gain access to Magnussen's office. While the engagement ring I want to use will merely be a prop in this instance, I'd actually like to purchase the ring as a small token of my commitment to you. So, it's primary purpose is for you, a trinket, I guess, and  _not_  a marriage proposal, but I've discovered that some women like these sorts of things and I thought if you chose something you like then that would be money well-spent. At the moment I know you don't want to be seen with me, but we could enter the shop separately, and you could try on a ring you liked, while I surreptitiously observe from the other side of the shop."

Sherlock paused, only to draw breath, when he noticed the pale hue Rose's face had taken on. Her eyes had begun to moisten, and it was only the slight flare of her nostrils that told him his words had not been met with any kind of enthusiasm on her part.

"Why would you want to buy me a ring?" she said, her voice small and tight.

Sherlock blinked a couple of times and replied, "I... just... told... you. Some partners buy jewellery—"

"—to mask their guilt," Rose finished, her face hardening even further.

"S-sorry?"

Rose folded her arms in front of her, making the bunch of keys jangle angrily on her behalf.

"Guilt."

Sherlock froze in place, a small amount of blood leeching from his face.

"What?"

Rose tore her eyes from Sherlock's ashen face and focussed on the length of the alleyway, as if she were contemplating her next words.

Locking her eyes with Sherlock's once more, she asked, "Why would Janine be convinced that you're actually in a... relationship... and even at the stage where you could propose marriage to her? How close are you? I mean... there should be a certain level of intimacy before marriage is even on the cards. You've had coffee and dinner with her and... " Rose had to swallow before her strained voice continued with, "...f-fixed her shoes."

Sherlock had no idea why the fixing of Janine's heels could even be considered an issue, and more interestingly, how Rose even knew about it.

"Well..." he responded, taking a step forward.

Rose took a step back, maintaining the gap between them, and she raised the hand that had been resting on her other arm.

"No," she said.

Sherlock didn't like this conversation. It had taken a turn for the worst. Proposing to Janine wasn't supposed to be indicative of their  _relationship status_  but rather a way to embarrass Janine so she'd allow him access to the secure floor on which Magnussen's office was located. Why was Rose making a big deal out of this?

"Answer me this," Rose continued.

Her nostrils flared again, but this time, Sherlock knew, it was in an attempt to stifle tears. He could see that, and he dreaded her question all the more.

"Have you and Janine had sex?"

"No."  _Ha. That was easy!_ And his furrowed brow made the additional comment that he didn't appreciate the question.

"Have you kissed her?"

_Oh. Not so easy._

His pause before answering had the effect of giving a response on his behalf, for Rose's eyes widened and her lips parted slightly.

 _Interesting_ , Sherlock thought,  _these facial gestures Rose was making, from a scientific point of view. They convey all manner of emotions, tiny tells—_

"You've  _kissed her_?"

Sherlock drew in a breath to steady himself.

"Well..." he said.  _How to start with the explanations?_

" _More than once_?"

_Why did she have to..._

"Sherlock!"

Rose took a step back. Sherlock tried in vain to stop making deductions about her every movement.  _Doesn't like what she's hearing. Subconsciously wants to move away from the conversation._ It was hindering his ability to argue back effectively.

"You just don't get it, do you?" Her eyes were wounded.  _Wounded!_

"Rose... it's not what you..."

"You kissed her, but you didn't mean it, is that what you want to say? But you didn't have sex with her, so everything is just fine. You do know there are all manner of things in between kissing and having sex don't you? So how far were you willing to take it? A little grope here and there? A hug that results in you pressing your erection up against her? Actually  _getting naked_ without the penetrative sex?"

Sherlock couldn't stop his eyes from widening at her words.  _Damn tells,_  he thought.  _But from a scientific point of view, quite interesting._

Rose's jaw dropped open. "You  _got naked with her?_ "

"Not... not... exactly," Sherlock said, blinking and taking a step back. Now it was he who was subconsciously moving away from the conversation.

" _Not exactly?_ "

_Not exactly. Idiot. Why didn't he just say, 'No'?_

"I mean we were... in the bathroom...  _I_  was naked, of course, so..."

Images of his and Janine's many encounters in the bathroom came to mind. The most recent being a couple of hours ago. Yes, he had shown his nude form to Janine  _again,_  but she was almost insistent in joining him in the bathtub, so he just had to up and leave while she was still standing there unbuttoning a shirt of his that she had been wearing. He made excuses at having to prepare for his meeting with Magnussen. And he couldn't help it that she  _hadn't_ turned her back on him when he stood up this time. She had reached behind her, keeping her eyes locked on his, a knowing look on her face, before handing him his towel.

And  _then,_ after Sherlock had wrapped the towel around his waist and stepped out of the tub, she had  _lingered,_ shirt agape, grasping the top of his towel and whispering, " _You know John's still out there..."_

 _"John's still out there?"_ Sherlock had repeated, suddenly feeling invigorated that John was interested enough in his case to stick around.

" _But I don't mind if you don't,_ " Janine had said, pressing herself against him suggestively.

" _I_ do  _mind,"_ he had replied, before adding, " _but it doesn't mean I'm not interested._ " He had ducked his head to press a quick kiss to Janine's cheek before he strode into his bedroom, shutting the ensuite door behind him. He'd left her half-undressed and  _wanting_  in the bathroom, where she eventually bathed and dressed and joined him and John in the living room.

But here, Rose was reading something else entirely into his words. This he did find annoying. Didn't she know him well enough to realise he would never do this sort of thing. Not with Janine. Not with any other woman. It was all part of a charade to get Janine into a position where she could trust him enough to break her workplace confidentiality agreement.

"Look, Rose," he said, furrowing his brow out of frustration for the even more incredulous look Rose was giving him. "She was there. I was naked. So, I was being playful. But you, of all people, know how much I hate having sex in the bathtu—"

The 'b' sound in 'bathtub' was effectively slapped out of existence. Sherlock's left cheek stung once more. The  _same_  side Molly Hooper had slapped earlier that morning,  _twice._

"You... have no… idea," Rose said through gritted teeth. Rose's expression now mirrored Molly Hooper's, strangely enough.  _Betrayal. A loss of trust_. He could read it all there. "Don't..."

"Rose."

"...ever call me, or come over to mine..."

"Rose," he said again, rubbing his raw cheek.

"...again. I'm  _done_ with you."

"Oh, for  _God's sake..."_

But Rose had spun around, scanned her id at the panel by the door, and had thrown the door open while Sherlock stood, stunned, immobile and at a loss for words.

The door slammed shut in front of him. He could hear its echoes and Rose's footsteps inside the back corridor of the store.

His head buzzed with puzzling thoughts.

 _What just happened?_ He hadn't even finished his sentence, let alone his explanation. Why was Rose so quick to jump to the worst possible conclusion? Sherlock stood for a moment, feeling his jaw and replaying their conversation in his mind. The trigger for Rose's slap, Sherlock determined, had been his words, "so I was being playful," followed by his reminder to her that he didn't like to have sex in the bathtub. Why was this a crime?

_I was naked... you know how much I hate having sex in the bathtub._

Sherlock rapidly blinked as he pieced together both his words and Rose's erroneous assumptions.

 _Rose thinks I engaged in_  foreplay _, in the bath, with Janine._

 _Foreplay_ was what he and Rose did in the bath. Not sex, because he had once written a fairly comprehensive list on why he didn't think sexual intercourse in the bathtub was a good idea.

He sighed deeply and hung his head. Well, at least it all made sense now. Sherlock stared for quite some time at the cigarette butts that littered the ground about him. This was where the smokers congregated during the day, hence them requesting the security cameras be turned off.

But not Rose. Because she didn't smoke. Nicotine, he added, qualifying that last thought.

He shook his head minutely, to stop himself deducing his surroundings.

This situation wasn't so bad, really. Rose was obviously mistaken and had over-reacted as she had done on many occasions before. Her storming away from him was akin to throwing a teaspoon at the door, or slapping him when he'd made a thoughtless comment when she needed space to sort herself out. This, too, would blow over. He'd let her calm down a bit, and then he'd go around to hers and explain to her exactly what he had meant. Then they'd have a laugh, she'd apologise for acting so hastily _—and harshly_ , he thought, rubbing his cheek again—and then they'd make love. The case would be over, and his next challenge would be to get Rose to move in with him.

Sherlock could see the next few days outlined so clearly that he smiled to himself as he walked along.

 _Well_ , he thought, reaching the end of the alleyway. _I've got some shopping to do._

He wouldn't need Rose's assistance to choose her a ring. Surely he knew enough about her to determine what she may like. He imagined her response when he gifted her with the ring later this evening. Her eyes would mist over, and she would silently hug him, at a loss for words.

Sherlock's grin broadened as he rounded the corner. He was nearing the end of the case, John was going to accompany him, and he would cement his love for Rose by presenting her with a small token.

Yes, today was going to be a fruitful day all round.

.


	62. You Won't Need Morphine

Every day that passed without Sherlock either calling, texting, or stopping by her place seemed to reinforce his guilt, as far as Rose was concerned.

The afternoon after her emotional outburst, she sought solace in the bathroom, not emerging until Melanie, her friend and in-store promoter, discovered her there. Rose was in no frame of mind to return to work, and at Melanie's insistence, she left the store for the tube. She didn't care what her workmates thought of her. She didn't care about anything really.

Her bed was a great source of comfort, but at some stage in the early evening, she had a shower and made herself a honey sandwich for dinner. It sat, uneaten, on her coffee table as she remained immobile on her sofa, staring at nothing in particular.

Rose longed to get high. She wanted all the sharp edges of her thoughts to be softened and blurred. She didn't have any weed at her place, and she didn't want to ring Billy in case Sherlock was there. High or not, she didn't even want to think of him breathing the same air as Billy.

Her emotions flitted between bone-deep sorrow, fist-clenching anger, and a feeling of hopelessness. She couldn't believe he thought his actions were acceptable. What did he do? Did he look up the definition of adultery, read that it was all about having sexual intercourse with someone who wasn't your partner, then deciding that he could do everything else _but_ stick his cock in someone else's twat?

That last thought brought on a surge of hateful adrenalin and Rose grabbed her sandwich plate and hurled it across the room, yelling, " _I fucking hate you!_ "

She lay on the sofa, burying her head deep into the cushions, wanting to scream some more, her head rattling with thoughts such as _Why are you so stupid!_ The genius-detective. _Such a wanker. Such a child_ _!_

Rose's heart continued to thud erratically. The clock still ticked how many minutes, seconds and hours it had been since she had left Sherlock. And he still hadn't made an effort to explain himself. Or apologise. Or made some _stupid, stupid, fucking attempt at_ —

A knock on her door caused Rose to freeze. She sat bolt upright. She must look a fright, she thought, and she ran her fingers through her hair to straighten it out a little. She wiped her nose with the back of her hand and couldn't decide whether to answer the door or not. After harbouring angry thoughts about Sherlock's lack of contact, she decided she wasn't actually up to another confrontation just yet.

"I know you're in there, darling."

What? _Tonya?_

Rose inelegantly disentangled her legs from underneath her, left the sofa and strode toward the door. _Did Tonya hear the plate smashing?_ Rose looked at the carnage against the wall near the coat rack.

She couldn't have heard, Rose concluded. Tonya's flat wasn't directly on top of Rose's. There were floors in between, and Tonya's was further along the passageway.

Tonya Small's voice floated through the door as she knocked once more. "Rose?"

Rose scanned the mess that had spread from the wall to the floor... _is that a crack in the wall?_

_Oh, no, it's just the honey._

She turned to the door, smoothed out her clothes and wiped her eyes. Drawing in a deep breath, she unlocked the deadbolts and opened the door.

"Oh, my darling Rosebud," Tonya said, her face falling at the sight of Rose. "You're taking it harder than I thought you would."

Rose stepped back as Tonya bustled inside. Rose's head buzzed. She knew Tonya was pretty sharp at deducing things, much like Sherlock. But still...

"H-how did you know?" Rose asked.

"Why... it was on the news."

Tonya continued toward the kitchen as Rose's stomach dropped several inches. Tonya called back, "I'll put the kettle on."

"On the news?" Rose repeated, her voice faint and strained, as she followed Tonya into the kitchen. "Why... h-how..."

Rose's worst fears had been realised. Had someone at work seen her arguing with Sherlock and recognised him as the Consulting Detective who had faked his own suicide?

Tonya calmly filled the kettle, then looked back at Rose.

"The evening news," she said. She turned her attention back to the tap, watching as the kettle filled with water.

"On _television_?" Rose asked. Why were their relationship troubles breaking news for the nation?

Tonya turned off the tap, then carried the kettle to its stand as she spoke.

"Why... yes. Where else? How did _you_ hear about it, if not from the news?"

Rose blinked a couple of times, her mind in disarray.

"Are we..." she began, struggling to gather her thoughts. "Are we talking about two different things?"

Tonya leant back against the kitchen counter and folded her arms in front of her. Raising a quizzical eyebrow, she said, "I'm referring to John Garvie's arrest, darling."

Rose physically deflated and she turned and sank into a dining chair. This wasn't necessarily _better news._

"Arrested for what?" she asked, dreading the answer.

"Oh," Tonya said, waving a flippant hand, "being a corrupt bastard. Something like that."

"Not... sexual deviancy?"

Tonya laughed. Not necessarily a comforting sound when it came from the Clarence House Cannibal.

"No, darling. But this..." she added, her face growing serious again. "This may not be a good thing."

"I know," Rose said.

"The press love to kick someone when they're down. Anybody who has any kind of dirt on the man will be coming forward, hoping to sell their story and cash in on his demise."

"But Magnussen already knows about me."

The pair lapsed into an uneasy silence. Rose picked at her fingernails. Tonya eventually turned around and began preparing their tea.

Bringing their mugs to the dining table, Tonya took a seat and said, "So, you were upset about something else when I came in. From the depths of your despair, I can only assume Mister Holmes has something to do with it."

Rose burst into tears again.

"Oh, my darling, Rosebud," Tonya cooed.

The rest of the evening was spent listening to the same lines Tonya used to spiel about Sherlock, Garvie, and men in general who used the services of prostitutes. Sherlock never had any respect for women, Tonya said, even Janine Hawkins in the end. Rose didn't actually mind Tonya's ranting this time. She still didn't quite agree with her. She honestly thought Sherlock _did_ love her, but was too stupid to know where to draw the line. Still, someone else's hatred directed at the man settled over her like a shock blanket. Tonya bustled around her, making supper, cleaning up the smashed honey sandwich, and folding Rose's clothes that came out of the dryer.

Rose felt better in the morning and decided to go to work. Halfway through the day, though, Gus said something benign, something about having to deal with misplaced invoices while she had been at home having a personal drama, and Rose snapped. Three years' worth of frustration at having to work with an incompetent like Gus came pouring out. The man sat in his chair, a game of solitaire on his screen, mouth agape and unable to speak as Rose stood over him and unleashed a torrent of abuse.

She stormed out once more and headed straight to Canning Town. Fortunately, Sherlock Holmes was not there; Billy hadn't seen him since yesterday morning, he said. Rose purchased extra weed from Billy and took it home. She spent Friday night toking on her balcony with Sunil and Melanie, who had come around with alcohol to offer their support.

Tired and hungover the next morning, Rose didn't go to work. Nor did she call in sick. In the afternoon, when she was woken by Tonya's loud knocks on the door, Rose discovered that Marjorie, from head office, had left her a text message, summoning her to a meeting on Monday.

 _Whatever,_ she thought.

Tonya had come around with the papers, and together they scoured every article to do with Garvie. There was no hint of any sexual scandal, but Rose said it was early days yet.

Sunday was particularly bad for her, because it was _Sunday._ She walked to Kensington Gardens with Tonya and her puppies and sat on their favourite park bench, sunning themselves. Rose was either stoned, drunk or hungover, or a combination of all three, that weekend.

On Monday morning, she dutifully reported to head office to be grilled by Marjorie, and comforted by Peter, the head of Personnel.

"I've left my boyfriend," Rose explained, in between forced tears. "He's a drug addict, and he sold all of my things... and then my... my... best friend died."

Half truths, all of them. But she didn't really care, nor did she want to lose her job. She just didn't want to _be there_ at the moment. Of course, she could've just sat in her office and played solitaire. If Gus could get away with it, then why couldn't she? But she couldn't even stomach being around that man and his salted peanut-crunching.

Rose said all the right things in her meeting. Had they been said to _Rose the counsellor,_ she would've recommended a week away from work for the troubled employee. Fortunately, head office had always appreciated Rose's efforts in their store in Shepherd's Bush (except when it came to promotions) and Peter, head of Personnel, recommended that she be given the rest of the week off, unpaid of course (added Marjorie), but at least she wasn't going to get fired. In a month or two, though, she was required to attend a personal development course about anger management.

_For fuck's sake._

Rose at least phoned her ASXX counselling supervisor to say she wouldn't be in this week. She felt they deserved a courtesy call. It was one job she actually liked.

But to top it all off, her passport arrived.

Rose buried it in a drawer underneath her underwear.

Their conversation about Sherlock taking her to Paris had occurred during one of their bathtime sessions. This trip wasn't going to happen now, and she didn't want to be constantly reminded of Sherlock's promises during happier times.

The next morning, during Rose's lazy week off, Tonya came around with more newspapers. Nothing about Garvie, Tonya had said as Rose brought both their cups of tea into her living room.

"But I thought you should see these, here in the safety of your own flat," Tonya added.

Tonya carefully laid the papers down onto the coffee table, where the headlines screamed at Rose:

_Shag-A-Lot Holmes_

_7 Times a Night in Baker Street_

_He Made Me Wear the Hat_

Rose's eyes dropped to one strapline, _Sherlock is as red-blooded as they come, claims_ _fiancé._ Her immediate response was, "That's not how you spell _fiancée._ "

Rose sank down onto the sofa, and added, "Thanks, Tonya, but I don't want to read them. I get it. He fucked her."

"She says he used her for sex," Tonya said, taking the seat beside Rose, "then dumped her after proposing to her."

 _So_ _,_ _did_ _he_ _buy the ring_ _?_ Rose mused, her stomach churning at the thought of their last conversation where Sherlock told her he wanted to buy her a small trinket to show his commitment toward her.

"It sounds like she's getting her revenge. Good on her," Tonya remarked. "And at least there's no mention of Garvie in these papers. Sounds like the press are already tired of his story."

Rose spent the rest of the day walking aimlessly around Kensington Gardens, and then Hyde Park. She watched a couple of lunchtime performers, then went back to her flat for her now regular afternoon nap. She tried not to think about the stories in the paper. She hadn't read them. Her blood would boil if she read them. Her phone rang a couple of times, but she ignored it. When she finally got around to checking it, she found that she had one missed call from Billy and one from Sunil.

Of course Sherlock wouldn't ring her. He couldn't now, even if he wanted to; she'd blocked his number. But what if he was using Billy's phone? She wouldn't put it past him, especially now that his scandalous activities had been reported in the papers, and he would suspect that Rose had seen them by now... if he was at all concerned.

When "Billy" rang again, she declined the call.

Shortly into the evening, while Rose was toking on her balcony, there was a rather insistent knocking at her door. Rose's mind had already drifted blissfully away in a haze of THC, so it took her a few seconds to register. Before even contemplating that the visitor may be Sherlock Holmes, she opened the door.

"Billy!" she exclaimed, glassy eyed, a wide smile adorning her face.

"Why aren't y'answering your phone?" Billy asked, stepping inside.

"I thought you were... someone else."

Rose went to walk away to continue her smoking out on the balcony when Billy called her back.

"Aay... we're meanta be goin'. Did you listen to the messages I left you?"

"Why?" Rose asked.

"Get y'jacket... oh, and the key to Shezza's. 'e says you 'ave one."

Rose furrowed her brow at the mention of _his_ name.

" _You_ can take it back to him," she said petulantly. "It's on my keyring."

"Nah, Rosie. I need 'elp with this."

"With what?"

"With 'elping Shezza escape."

Even in her current state, Rose knew there was something not right here.

"Escape from where?"

"From 'ospital."

Rose tried to raise the necessary concern for this information. But her mind and body were not cooperating.

"Why... is he... in hospital?" she asked, blinking slowly.

Billy tilted his head. "Don't y'know?"

Rose slowly shook her head.

"Somebody shot 'im."

This news would ordinarily have been met with a gasp of shock on Rose's part, but instead, she snorted out a laugh, and then doubled-over as the apparent humour of the situation overshadowed the gravity of Sherlock's predicament.

"Rosie, come on," Billy bid her, rather impatiently.

Rose couldn't stop laughing. There was something so wonderful about the timing of Billy's news.

"Shot him!" she repeated, in between a fresh round of laughter.

Billy tutted and grabbed Rose's coat for her. He also retrieved her bag from the coffee table, rummaged around inside it for a moment, before drawing out her set of keys.

"Come on," he said, now pulling on Rose's arm as she continued chuckling to herself.

"Wait!"

Rose pulled away from Billy, and quickly ducked out to her balcony to retrieve her unfinished joint.

"Don't bring that," Billy said. "I need y'to be sensible."

"Tooo late," Rose said, giggling as Billy bundled her outside. She took another drag on the joint and said, pointedly, " _William Wiggins._ "

She could see Billy attempting to ignore her as they descended the stairs to the ground floor. Rose was surprised when they headed straight toward a cab that sat idle on the kerb.

"We're catching a cab?" she asked, as Billy swiftly plucked the joint from her hand and crushed it underfoot. He ignored her protests as he steered her toward the waiting vehicle.

"I've got Shezza's card for all our expenses," Billy explained. "An' 'e said you know the PIN."

"Do I?"

Rose had no idea what was going on, and she didn't think it was necessarily because she was high. It was as if she had found herself in some sort of alternate universe, where Bill Wiggins travelled by cab everywhere and told her to behave herself and to stop smoking marijuana. It was bizarre, and worth giggling about every so often.

Billy had waved a list under her nose, and began reciting it to her. Instructions from Shezza, he had said. First they had to stop by a pharmacy to buy a bottle of _Claire-de-la-lune_.

"Why?" Rose asked petulantly. "For his fiancée?"

"It's all a part of the puzzle, innit?"

"What puzzle?"

"The one 'e wants Doctor Watson to solve."

"What?"

Billy left the cab idling in the street and ordered Rose to stay there and wait for him. He returned shortly with the perfume and bid the cabbie to take them to Baker Street. Rose protested loudly about this, until Billy told her it was a matter of life and death and if she wanted to help catch a potential murderer, then she'd better shut up.

Rose was silent for the rest of the way, fuming that she was coming down from her high and that a perfectly good joint had been squished on the footpath outside her flat.

"You can 'ave a toke la'er, Rosie," Billy said as they pulled up outside Sherlock Holmes' residence. "We've got work to do."

 _Wait a minute_ _,_ Rose thought. _Who's he beginning to sound like now?_

Billy unlocked the front door and ushered Rose inside.

"Ah..." he said, looking along the passageway to the rear. "Where...?"

"Upstairs," Rose said, still pissed off about being ordered around by _Sherlock_ , who was obviously using Bill Wiggins as his mouthpiece.

"Now..." Billy said, looking around then peering at his list. "We 'ave-ta put an armchair back in its place."

"Are you fucking kidding me?"

"Come on, Rosie."

Rose crossed her arms and stubbornly remained where she was as a gesture of defiance.

"I'm not struggling on that fucking staircase again with a heavy armchair because some psychopathic fucking man-whore can't make his mind up about where to place it."

"Aw, Rosie, you really 'ave a mouth on ya, when y'get angry."

"I'm not doing it."

"Look. This is all for the puzzle. Clues for Doctor Watson. Shezza wants the chair down'ere, so we 'ave-ta put the chair down'ere."

"Why? So some filthy prostitute can suck him off while he sits in it, making random deductions about the world? Oh, wait a minute. That filthy prostitute is me."

"Aay..." Billy protested, reaching for Rose by the arms. He bent over her and said, firmly, "You don't eva talk 'bout y'self like that. Never."

Rose's mood was rapidly nose-diving. Her eyes glistened with unshed tears. Billy regarded her for a moment before reaching into this jacket and pulling out an already-rolled joint.

"Listen. Y'can 'ave this one after we're don'ere. Okay?"

Rose examined the expertly rolled spliff. Billy was waving a carrot in front of her; that's what her life had come to. Do this unpleasant task, and you can escape your shitty existence on a marijuana high.

Rose finally acquiesced and they ascended the staircase to John Watson's old bedroom. Getting the chair down was a lot easier than lifting it up there previously. Billy bore the brunt of the weight, while Rose steered him toward the fireplace.

Rose sank down into the chair as Billy fussed about her. He placed a side table next to the chair, then fiddled with the positioning of the bottle of _Claire-de-la-lune_ by a stack of books until he thought it was just right.

"I don't get it," Rose said.

"Well, 'e's gonna sit there, inn'e? 'e'll look at the perfume, and make a connection between that and the killer."

"The killer? Are we talking about the person who shot Sherlock?" Rose asked.

"Yep."

"And Sherlock needs John to work it out?"

"Summin' like tha'."

"Well, I know who I put my money on... Janine."

"Nup."

"Why not? He screwed her and dumped her."

Billy took a seat opposite Rose, in Sherlock's armchair.

"I'm disappoin'ed in ya. Of all the things y'know 'bout Shezza, you believe the lies she told in the papers? _That's_ 'er revenge, Rosie. She won't want nuffin' to do with shootin' the guy. She got want she wanted. Money for her story."

"Okay," Rose said, sighing. She didn't care to know.

Sitting in Sherlock's flat by the fireplace was making her chest constrict. Her thoughts clashed from a confusing myriad of new facts. Sherlock had been shot—last Thursday, Billy had told her. This meant he'd been in hospital _all this time_. He hadn't _chosen_ to avoid contacting her. He physically couldn't. He might have _died,_ while she was projecting death-threat like thoughts upon him.

This was too much for Rose to comprehend right at the moment.

"May I have the joint now?" she asked Billy, ever-so politely.

"Not in'ere. And anyway, we've still gotta get a few more things. Shezza needs a change of clothes. Can you get them? I just 'ave t'find 'is spare mobile phone and bluetooth 'eadset."

Ten minutes later, they were walking along Baker Street. Rose was toking, and Billy said he'd only give her a couple of minutes before they had to catch a cab.

"But I've barely had any!" Rose whined when Billy said her time was up. "I'm not wasting another one."

"'ere, look."

Billy took the joint from Rose and lightly brushed away the ashes and embers. He then twisted the spliff to close up the end. He pocketed the joint once more and promised Rose she could have it when they reached the hospital carpark.

 _Good_ , Rose thought. There was no way she wanted to see Sherlock without being high.

* * *

The burning sensation underneath his ribcage began to spread, radiating outwards. Sherlock's chest grew tight as his mind started to receive input from his immediate surroundings. He knew he was floating back to the surface of reality, like he was supposed to, as he had requested. That meant that _somebody_ had turned down his morphine drip as per his instructions.

He finally opened his eyes a crack, then blinked several times against the dim lighting. In his periphery, he sensed movement to his right. He slowly turned his head.

She was sitting with her head bowed, hugging her knees, on the visitor's chair that had been placed beside his bed. She was wearing those abominable skinny jeans that were next to impossible to remove when needs were high and urgency was paramount. The fingers on the hand that rested on her knee were tapping along to some unheard song.

Sherlock found this image of her a bit disturbing.

"Rose," he said, his voice strained from disuse. He wondered if she was wearing headphones. He called her again at a louder volume after not receiving a response the first time.

Rose slowly lifted her head. Her too wide a smile and glassy eyes initially threw Sherlock.

"You're awake," she stated, her words floating on air.

She put her knees down as Sherlock continued to scrutinise her.

"I'm supposed to dress you," she said in a dream-like manner. She stood up, stretched her arms above her head and yawned. "Oh, God, I'm tired!"

This wasn't the Rose Sherlock had expected to encounter upon waking. When he instructed Billy to contact Rose so they could help him leave the hospital, he imagined an angry Rose, an upset Rose—a Rose who was struggling to hold back both tears and rage. But not _this_ Rose. It was as if...

_Oh._

She was stoned.

Rose glanced about the room. "Now, where...?"

Sherlock watched her, fascinated by her fluid movements and unaffected demeanour. Was she even concerned that he'd been shot?

"Rose," he said again. His voice was like gravel, and it was beginning to hurt like hell to breathe. He didn't know what he wanted to say to her. He probably had a lot he _should_ say to her, but his mind wasn't fully functioning yet.

"O-kay," she said, laying Sherlock's clothes down on the end of the bed. She lightly tugged at the sheet around Sherlock's waist and drew it downwards. "Oh... nice underwear," she remarked, with a slight giggle.

Rose shook out Sherlock's trousers and held them up in front of her.

"I wanted to bring Billy's old trackies in," she said, commencing with one of Sherlock's trouser legs, "because they'd be more comfortable, but he said it was all about presenting a confident image to your killer. I think it's because you're a vain bastard, but anyway, what would I know."

Sherlock had winced at her words. She was still speaking in that dreamy way she normally did when she smoked weed, even down to the underlying affection in her tone. The words themselves were at odds with the rest of the package. He dreaded to think what she would be saying by the time she came down from her high. His own morphine-induced euphoria was wearing off. It looked like they were both going to be in a lot of pain shortly.

As Rose continued dressing him, she said, "I'm not here because I care about you; I'm here because I'm helping Billy."

Sherlock tried to maintain a steady breath. He didn't want to over-analyse Rose's words, nor could he come up with a suitable counter-argument. The fire in his side was growing in its intensity.

"Just - wait," he said, after Rose had untwisted his trouser waistband underneath him. His voice struggled through the pain. He exhaled slowly, then zipped up his trousers himself. "I need a moment - before we try the shirt."

Putting on his shirt would require him to sit up and remove the morphine drip. His ribs weren't quite ready for that yet. His Pain Management System wasn't quite ready for that either. Sherlock reached over and increased his morphine just a tad. He didn't want to go back to sleep, but he did need to do something about the pain just for a moment.

Rose was quietly watching him, he could sense that. His eyelids grew heavy and he let them flutter shut. His ribs protested with every breath. He felt the mattress sink in ever so slightly and a pressure on his forehead— _a hand?_ — and suddenly Sherlock was transported back into his Mind Palace. He was wandering the corridors in the older section of his memories. In the periphery of his vision he was sure Rose was there, watching him, but whenever he turned his head, there was no sign of her.

The air around him thickened as he walked along until it felt as if he were walking underwater. His feet left the floor and the body of water made him buoyant. It was dark and warm and very, very still. He drifted aimlessly with the gentle currents until slowly but surely he was floating toward the surface again, toward the light.

Sherlock slowly opened his eyes. Rose was standing near the blinds, reading the cards on the flower arrangements. Did he imagine she had sat on the bed beside him and pressed her palm to his forehead?

"Rose," he called weakly.

She turned around, her face expressionless.

"How long was I out for?"

Rose shrugged indifferently.

"Let's... do this," he said, reluctantly.

Sherlock pressed the remote to raise the back of the bed. Rose lifted her brows, and Sherlock thought she was going to burst out laughing. Thankfully, she didn't and she moved to the end of the bed and retrieved Sherlock's shirt.

"Oh, wait," Sherlock said, looking toward the crook of his elbow. "Where's Billy? I need him to remove this first."

Rose sighed and dropped the shirt onto the bed.

"He's out hunting wheelchairs," she said in a bored fashion.

"I can't remove this with one hand." Before he could explain himself further, Rose had drifted out of the room.

Sherlock exhaled heavily. The urgency with which he had decided to leave hospital seemed to have lessened. When he first awoke and his thoughts had become lucid, all he could think about was Mary and how wrong he had been about her. Not _wrong_ , so much, as the observations were all there— _Liar_ _, skip code, orphan's lot._ He just hadn't connected them to deduce her real identity. He'd ignored the person she was because of the person he needed her to be: John's wife, and a trustworthy confidante. It was only when Janine had said, " _I'll give your love to John and Mary,_ " that Sherlock remembered they were still a couple, and John was oblivious to what Mary was and what she had done.

He had to put plans in motion to inform John about Mary, and to convince Mary that Sherlock could help her. But why hadn't she trusted him enough to come to him in the first place?

The only way Sherlock could achieve this was by leaving hospital and getting John to start to piece things together himself. Sherlock would have to fudge a few clues along the way—much like the time he had arranged things for Rose to spot in her flat when he had left in a huff. To accomplish all this, he needed help. His thoughts immediately went to Rose. The slight twinge in his heart reminded him that there was unfinished business between them. But as far as Rose was concerned, he recalled, they were _finished_ business. And so he had to enlist the assistance of Bill Wiggins first.

"Billy's coming," Rose said, drifting back into the room.

Billy arrived close behind with a few supplies but no wheelchair.

"The chair's around the corner," Billy informed Sherlock. "Jus' need t'get it 'ere the long way round."

Billy busied himself donning surgical gloves. Sherlock watched in mild amusement as the drug den chemist confidently clamped off the drip and began to remove the tapes that secured the extension tubes to Sherlock's arm. Billy had assured him earlier that he was able to do this sort of thing.

Rose stood on the other side of the bed with her arms folded in front of her, intently watching Billy as well. Sherlock resisted the urge to reach for her hand. Instead, he closed his eyes, steeling himself for the pain that would inevitably creep back, as Billy removed the rest of the tape and dressing.

"Come round 'ere, Rosie," Billy said finally, as the pressure of the catheter was removed.

Billy instructed Rose to hold a strip of gauze over the insertion site while he cleared away the equipment and dressings and stowed the additional supplies he had stolen into his jacket.

"You finish gettin' 'im dressed," Billy said, halfway across the floor, "an' I'll get the wheelchair."

"But what about...?" Rose asked Billy.

When she was met with silence, Sherlock opened his eyes. It seemed Billy had left without answering her.

"What about the thing in your neck?" she asked, redirecting her query to Sherlock.

"We decided to leave it there," he replied. "In case they need to administer something important... later."

Rose frowned, then her eyes took in the rest of Sherlock's chest. Sherlock watched her features carefully. He was trying to see if Rose would display signs that she still cared for him.

"Is that where you were shot?"

"Yes."

"Do you know who shot you?"

"Yes."

Rose continued to stare at the bandage as if she were trying to come to terms with something before her eyes met his again.

"Who?"

Sherlock sighed wearily. The fewer people who knew about Mary's real identity, the safer it would be for everyone concerned. But perhaps Rose wouldn't be safe in Sherlock's company if she wasn't aware that a so-called friend was actually a highly-trained killer.

"Mary," he said. "Mary Watson."

He could see Rose trying to compute that fact.

"Mary?"

Sherlock smiled weakly in confirmation.

"I'll explain it all later, but first," he said, pulling away at the electrode tapes that held the ECG leads in place, "I still have to get dressed."

Rose released pressure on the gauze strip she was still holding and peered cautiously at the injection site.

"It'll be fine," Sherlock said, indicating his arm.

Rose deposited the gauze into a bin behind her, then tentatively approached the bed again.

"I need my shirt," Sherlock said, thinking he had to prompt her. Clearly she was deep in thought now and likely to forget what it was she was supposed to be assisting him with.

"You know, anyone can just walk in and out of here," she said, not moving from the side of the bed. "We did. You don't have any security guards. Doesn't anybody care?" _Clearly you do now_ , Sherlock thought with some satisfaction. "I'd have thought your over-bearing brother would've… would've put the Queen's own bodyguards outside your door."

"He doesn't want to draw attention to me. I'm hiding in plain sight, and besides… the person who shot me knows _exactly_ where to find me. Now, Rose. Shirt."

This prodded Rose into action. She rounded the bed and silently helped with Sherlock's shirt, patiently waiting while he took several breaks throughout to breathe through the pain. Finally the shirt was around him, a little crinkled and still unbuttoned.

"Let me stand now," Sherlock suggested. He told her that it would ease the pressure a little if he wasn't hunched over on the bed. He was going to lean back against the bed for support. "But stand in front of me in case I collapse."

A look of alarm crossed Rose's face, before it just as quickly disappeared. She helped Sherlock swivel his legs around and sit up without the support of the pillows behind him. He dropped his feet to the ground and shakily stood, leaning heavily on the edge of the bed.

"Okay?"

Rose's face was awash with worry. Sherlock could tell she was coming down from her own high. He was grateful that concern was the first real emotion she was displaying toward him.

"Bit light-headed," he replied, ignoring the pain in his side. "Could you… could you button up my shirt for me… please." His own hands were occupied with holding onto the bed.

Rose dutifully acquiesced and began by arranging the collar about his neck to hide the tubes. She emitted tiny sighs throughout, music to Sherlock's ears.

_She cares._

He could smell her shampoo while her head was bowed in concentration in front of him. The scent tickled his nose and filled him with a familiar warmth. Finally, Sherlock couldn't stand the silence any longer.

"Rose... I'm sorry."

There were two buttons left at the bottom, ones that required her utmost attention, apparently.

"For what?" she asked, her eyes remaining downcast as she slipped the last button through its hole. "For hurting me? For fucking somebody else?" She finally looked up and locked eyes with his. "Or for making me come in here and attend to your every need like some kind of maid-servant?"

Sherlock swallowed the lump in his throat.

"Well, options one and three, obviously. The second option didn't actually happen."

Rose studied his eyes. Was she attempting to assess the truth behind his words?

"And…" Sherlock began, desperately trying to condense his feeble explanations into the length of a social media tweet. "Although I was naked, I had been taking a bath. She unknowingly entered, but nothing untoward happened. Although, she made a few comm—"

Rose had terminated his rambling by pressing her lips to his. It was unexpected, but thoroughly welcomed. Her long, stirring kiss ignited every nerve in his body. He brought a hand up to rest lightly on her arm. His heart began to race, but Sherlock couldn't be sure if it was because of her warm presence or the fact that he was upright. He reluctantly decided it was the latter. He drew back a little, which Rose appeared to sense, and she eased out of their kiss.

She lingered just a breath away and whispered, "I hate myself for still loving you."

His heart dropped at her words, but there was something more pressing he had to address.

"Um… Rose," he said, his voice fraying around the edges, "could you stop leaning on me."

Her furrowed brow remained in place but she straightened up, taking her weight from him.

"Does it hurt?"

"Yes," he said on a relieved exhale. "The bullet tore a hole inside me."

Rose's jaw hardened and she took a step back from Sherlock. She gave a faint nod in acknowledgement, then murmured, "I know how that feels." Rose turned from him to retrieve his jacket from the end of the bed.

Sherlock didn't quite understand. Was she still angry with him or wasn't she?

Before he could think of something else to say, Billy appeared in the doorway with the wheelchair.

"All right, Shezza?"

Sherlock straightened up and gave Billy a faint nod. Rose helped him with his jacket as Billy fussed with the wheelchair.

"It's got one-a these... things," Billy said, gesturing to the IV pole attached to the wheelchair. "So maybe we could-a..." He looked over to Sherlock's morphine drip, the one they had just removed from the patient's arm.

Sherlock followed his gaze, and closed his eyes in resignation.

"It doesn't matter," he said. "We have to leave. Now. Rose, my coat."

He gestured toward the low cabinets underneath the flowers where his belongings had been stored. Time was at a premium, and so was his ability to remain upright and pain-free.

"We'll bring it anyway," Billy murmured. "I can always..." he patted his now bulky pockets, "hook y'up la'er if y'need it."

While Billy collected the morphine drip and attached it to the wheelchair, Rose silently helped Sherlock draw on his Belstaff. He was beginning to feel a little bit like himself. Just a little.

Both Billy and Rose helped Sherlock into the wheelchair. His breath came in short bursts. He realised he was going to be operating on pure will-power and adrenalin, neither of which would last long. Although if Billy _could_ reattach his morphine drip...

"All right," Billy said, taking up pole position behind the chair.

"Wait," Sherlock said, pausing a moment to catch his breath. "Rose, raise the blinds."

"Why?"

"Just - do it."

Rose did his bidding, exhaling loudly as she did so.

"And open the window," he added.

"Ah," said Billy, enlightened. "They'll think you escaped outta the window."

Rose fixed Billy with a look of annoyance.

"He's on the first floor," she said. "And he can barely stand, let alone climb out of a window."

"You'd be surprised," Sherlock said, struggling to get his words out, "what erroneous conclusions people will draw from an open window."

"And," Billy offered, "they'll think 'e's long gone, giving us plen'y of time to get a cab outside."

Rose rolled her eyes then made for the door. She squeezed past them both, calling back, "Let's go then, geniuses!"


	63. Right Here, Right Now, What is She?

Rose may have been able to carry the equipment from the store by herself, but Sherlock didn't want her navigating the dark alleyways behind the shops all alone. And it was too risky having Billy wander around her workplace solo, after business hours in the dark, looking for the display model to 'borrow.'

"It's for Mary," Sherlock had said when Rose initially objected to the idea of entering Roches Home Entertainment store when it was closed. Once they'd left the hospital, Billy had read the next item on his To Do list, after ' _Rescue Shezza from hospital._ ' It read ' _Borrow large-format projector from Rosie's shop_.' It looked like both she and Billy would have to go to the store and leave Sherlock here alone.

Her high had well and truly worn off now. The layers of cottonwool that had protected her from the drama that was Sherlock Holmes had disintegrated until she was left painfully exposed. Helping Sherlock into the cab, the journey itself to Leinster Gardens, and assisting him climb the stairs to her flat had revealed the extent of his injury and therefore his weakness and vulnerability.

Her chest tightened as she took in his grim, ashen face. They slowly lowered him to her sofa before they'd even removed his coat because his heart-rate was erratic, he'd said, and he needed to lie down immediately. Billy left Rose to sit by Sherlock while he ducked back downstairs to retrieve the wheelchair that they'd had to leave on the ground floor after alighting from the cab. She held Sherlock's hand, which he squeezed back. She wondered how much pain he was in, and if he was trying desperately to hide the fact from her.

Once upstairs again, Billy emptied his pockets and took stock of his stolen supplies. Satisfied that he'd come away with the necessary items to set up an IV drip for Sherlock, they carefully eased the patient's coat and jacket from him. Rose rolled up Sherlock's shirt sleeve and Billy fastened a tourniquet around Sherlock's arm after palpating for a suitable vein.

Rose watched as colour began returning to Sherlock's face because he was now lying down and resting. He reached for her with his free hand as Billy wiped the crook of Sherlock's elbow with a swab.

"You'll be okay," she said, offering Sherlock a smile, but wondering to herself if Billy really had the necessary skills to do what he was about to do. In the cab ride over, Billy and Sherlock were talking about cannulas and flashbacks, valves and clamps and milligrams per second. Rose caught the word "embolism" at one stage and knew immediately that that wasn't a good thing.

She watched in fascination as the needle pierced Sherlock's skin, her eyes widening when the tiny chamber at the end filled with blood. Billy appeared confident as he pushed in the cannula, loosened the tourniquet and removed the needle. Rose expected Sherlock's blood to come splurting out the other end, but Billy's fingers seemed to know what to hold where.

"Just doin' the saline," Billy told Sherlock, as he connected a syringe to the cannula tube.

Rose returned her gaze to Sherlock as Billy murmured something about "flushing." Sherlock's eyes were shut, and deep creases had appeared in his brow. He was still in a lot of pain. It wouldn't be long now. She gave his hand another squeeze.

Billy had secured the tubes with tape and dressing and was ready to connect the morphine drip to the cannula. Rose helped him move the coffee table away to make room for Sherlock's makeshift IV stand, the wheelchair.

"Okay," said Billy, after cleaning up the medical supplies and setting a timer on Sherlock's phone, "I 'ave-ta get my disguise ready for la'er. Rosie, can I borrow some stuff?"

"Yes, of course. Help yourself," she replied, her eyes not leaving Sherlock's face.

After a few minutes, his hardened features began to soften around the edges. Sherlock exhaled deeply, then opened his eyes. Rose smiled warmly at him.

"You're not angry," he said.

"Oh, I'm holding back on my anger, don't you worry," she said with false bravado. "I'm saving it for later. You'll know the full extent of it when you're a bit better."

Sherlock smiled weakly and threaded his fingers through Rose's.

"I'm sorry," he said, locking his eyes on hers. The thickness of his voice said more than his words did. Rose thought he looked like he wanted to say more but didn't know how to go about it.

Rose's heart fluttered and she felt ashamed that she had let her mind flood with hatred toward Sherlock over the past few days, letting it fester and multiply while he had been lying in hospital on death's doorstep, presumably. They still had a lot to discuss. He'd well and truly stepped over the line in regard to courting Magnussen's PA. In her heart, Rose knew he hadn't had sex with Janine, but the kissing—and whatever else he had done to win her trust—had definitely put him in _you-fucked-up_ territory as far as she was concerned.

"We can talk about it later," she said. Rose could feel her eyes beginning to moisten. "But just so you know the rules…" She struggled to keep the words from catching in her throat. "You're not allowed to… die… when I'm angry with you." When Sherlock's smile broadened, she shrugged lightly. "It's a rule thing. Nothing to do with me."

"I'll do my best."

"And in case you get any silly ideas," she said, smiling ruefully, "You can't die when I'm happy with you either."

"Noted."

His eyes seemed to take in her face a little more carefully than before.

"You haven't been wearing make-up," he said.

"No, but I usually—"

"—remove it when you get home. Yes, I know. But there would be traces of mascara on your lashes. There usually are. Clearly you haven't worn any in days. Haven't you been at work?"

"No."

Rose knew her expression was instantly readable to someone like Sherlock Holmes.

"Because you were upset with me?" he asked.

"Yes. But we're not talking about this now, remember? You have to rest and have relief from the pain, because… because we've got work to do." Rose almost choked on her own words. His words, actually.

Rose reached over and drew aside the hair that had flopped onto Sherlock's forehead. He closed his eyes against her touch.

"That's nice," he murmured.

Rose continued carding her fingers through his hair for a little while until Sherlock opened his eyes again.

"I have something to say," he said, "and I'd better do it now in case we don't get another chance…" When Rose's eyes widened a little, Sherlock swiftly added, "… tonight."

She relaxed a little. Only a little.

"Come closer," Sherlock bid her. "But try not to lean on me, this time." Rose leant forward and Sherlock rested his hands lightly on her arms. He smiled sheepishly and said, "I think you might have to start, though."

Sherlock's eyes glistened in expectation causing Rose's chest to constrict. Still, her eyes began to water as she posed the question that appeared to hold more meaning than ever before.

"Do you love me?"

"Yes."

Rose didn't think she'd ever get to say these words to Sherlock again, and she fought against her emotions long enough to say, "I love you, too."

Before her tears threatened to spill, Sherlock reached up and drew her down toward him. Rose captured his lips in hers. She shivered when Sherlock's mouth began to move avidly beneath hers. His fingers tangled themselves in her hair, but Rose resisted the urge to press herself against him in case she hurt him again. The taste of him was seductive, but the fear of what could have happened, what could _still_ happen, welled up inside her.

"Aay," Billy said from across the room. "No snoggin'. This ain't _The English Patient._ "

Rose slowly drew away from Sherlock. He was smiling faintly at her. She turned to look at Billy who was holding a yellow blanket, obviously taken from her linen closet.

"Can I borrow this?" Billy asked.

Rose smiled at her friend. She was amused at Billy's enthusiasm for working for Sherlock of late.

"Yes, Billy. So, what look are you going for?"

"'omeless, o'course. And I need a container for collectin' donations."

"Check the kitchen cabinets."

Rose turned back to Sherlock. "I'd better go help him," she said. "He might take all night." She fixed him with a smile, then leant over him once more, narrowing the gap between them. "Don't you go anywhere," she whispered, before planting a soft kiss on Sherlock's lips.

Billy couldn't find a suitable container after they'd checked every cupboard.

"Why, what's wrong with this?" Rose asked, holding up an empty yoghurt container.

"Doesn't look 'omeless enough. I'll check the skip bin on the way out."

Rose knew they had to leave soon. She returned to the living area and checked on Sherlock. He appeared relaxed and sleepy, but still responsive.

"Is that enough now, Billy?" Rose asked the resident medical expert.

"Ah... yep. Should be gettin' close."

Billy turned off Sherlock's drip as the mobile phone alerted them that the timer was up. Rose bent over and planted a soft kiss on Sherlock's lips. His eyes cracked open a little.

"I don't want to leave you like this," Rose whispered.

"I...f-fine," Sherlock murmured, his eyes closing again.

Rose stood and exhaled deeply. She regarded Sherlock's slumbering form. They'd be gone for at least forty-five minutes, Billy had estimated. Would that be too long to leave Sherlock on his own?

"Come on, Rosie," Billy bid her as he drew on his coat by the door. "We want t'be back by the time 'e wakes."

* * *

The world came into focus again. Sherlock could hear Rose struggling with keys in the lock outside the front door. Clearly she was panicking about what state they may find him in. Wearily Sherlock pulled himself to a semi-sitting position and looked expectantly over to the door.

Rose finally opened it, her eyes widening at seeing Sherlock awake and already watching her as she entered.

"Are you okay?" she asked, striding across the floor with a sense of urgency.

"I'm fine." He even planted a smile on his face to prove his point.

"Should... should we restart your drip?"

Sherlock heaved out a sigh. "No. We have work to do. I need to ring John now that you're back." Sherlock didn't fail to catch Rose's lips drawing into a thin line as she turned away from him and shrugged out of her coat.

When Billy entered holding a large cardboard box in one hand and an empty milk container in the other, Sherlock said, "Excellent, Billy. Take it out to the balcony. Rose, I need you to fetch me your laptop."

Sherlock swivelled his legs to the ground, then paused as the world swayed a little.

"Are you okay?"

Evidently, Rose hadn't left the room yet. She still had several more helpings of concern to dish out.

"I'll tell you when I'm not okay, or I'll just keel over—one or the other. But otherwise, just get on with it and stop worrying about me."

Rose didn't respond. She silently exited the living room for her bedroom. Sherlock closed his eyes and tried to concentrate on his breathing. It was easy to ignore the tiny pangs of guilt he felt over snapping at Rose. They were rather overshadowed by the excruciating pain somewhere in the vicinity of his liver.

He _wasn't_ okay, but he wasn't about to tell Rose that. He had to hang in there for John and Mary.

This case— _what case?—_ had taken a turn for the worst. He'd sorted out Garvie for Rose; he'd wanted to retrieve the letters from Magnussen for Lady Smallwood—it was a _challenge,_ and that had made the case _important._ But now it was personal again. One of his _own_ had been threatened by that man. Yes, she had shot him, but...

_I'm sorry, Sherlock. Truly I am._

Sherlock leant back onto the sofa to stretch his ribs a little. He breathed out deeply. With his eyes still shut, he heard Rose re-enter the living area.

"Here's the laptop. Where do you want it? It still needs to charge."

He opened his eyes and reached for the computer when Rose held it out to him. He placed it on his lap and opened the lid. Rose drew the electricity cord away from him and busied herself with plugging it into the socket previously occupied by the cord for the floor lamp. Sherlock swiftly navigated to the photo gallery he'd set up at the beginning of the case; the one that contained the Watsons' wedding photos.

"Can I get you anything else?" Rose was hovering, worry lines etched into her face. "Or _do_ something, for you?"

Without lifting his eyes from the screen, Sherlock said, "Fetch me my phone."

Rose turned around to take in the coffee table that had been moved aside.

"Where is it?"

"Here, Rose," Sherlock said, pointing. "Right here."

Rose turned around to look where Sherlock was pointing. He almost expected her to wear that stupid expression John sometimes wore. The one that said, _Would it kill you to reach over and get it yourself._ Instead, her pitying eyes told him she believed it _would_ kill him to lean forward to retrieve it himself.

Rose grabbed the phone from the seat of the wheelchair and passed it to him. Sherlock placed it on the sofa beside him. Turning the laptop around to face Rose, he said, "Here. Give this to Billy. This is the image I want projected on the house opposite."

Rose made no comment about the photo he'd chosen: a smiling, radiant Mary Watson on her wedding day.

_Oh, Sherlock, if you take one more step, I swear I will kill you._

He clenched his jaw.

"It doesn't have enough charge," Rose said.

" _Oh, for God's sake, Rose! Run the electricity through the open door! Get an extension cord! Work it out! Think for yourself for once!_ "

Sherlock could feel the heat rising in his neck. His cheeks were beginning to flush. He leant his head back, closed his eyes and gritted his teeth. He wanted Rose to snap back. Why wasn't she arguing with him? Call him a rude bastard; tell him to fuck off. But she remained infuriatingly silent.

Adrenalin was a useful thing. Not in this case, though. Sherlock willed his heart to stop sprinting in his chest.

Rose moved about him. He knew she was being careful not to touch him. She ran the electricity cord along the back of the sofa. Once she was through the door to the balcony, Sherlock heard Billy murmuring. _Probably_ reassuring her, making sympathetic noises. Because Sherlock had made her cry; he knew that. _Shezza's in pain,_ Billy had probably told Rose. _He's not himself._

 _I_ am _myself. I'm an arsehole._

Sherlock opened his eyes and drew in necessary oxygen. He picked up his mobile and regarded it in his palm. He had to make the phone call now. There was no putting it off.

He _wasn't_ an arsehole. He was in pain because he _cared too much_.

John was taking too long to answer his phone. Why wasn't he answering? The caller ID would clearly state that it was Sherlock. So... John was most likely hesitant because it could be a bystander ringing from Sherlock's phone to tell him that he found this guy in the street...

" _Hello._ "

Tentative. Steeling himself for the worst.

"John."

" _Jesus Christ, Sherlock! Where are you_?"

"John. Listen to me. I'm going to text you an address. Come immediately and _tell no one._ Not even Lestrade. And definitely not..." Sherlock bit back his words as Mary Watson's voice once more echoed in his mind. _I swear I will kill you._ "I'll explain when you get here."

Sherlock ended the call not wanting to give John the chance to ask any more questions. He swiftly texted Rose's address to his former flatmate. He knew John Watson. The thrill of the unknown. The potential for danger. Of course he would tell no one.

"It's all set up," came Rose's voice from the door to the balcony.

Her face held no expression. She had obviously heard Sherlock's call to John and was attempting to be unaffected by the fact that John Watson was going to come here, to her flat.

"Thank you."

Rose gave him a tiny smile before she headed in the direction of the kitchen. Sherlock settled into the back of the sofa and sighed. He wanted to reassure Rose that John wouldn't make a big deal out of having to come to her flat. The flat of a former prostitute. The flat of Sherlock's lover—the one John knew nothing about until the day after his wedding.

But Sherlock couldn't offer Rose any reassurances, because John's reaction to whose residence this was would be insignificant compared to his reaction once he found out the true nature of his wife's identity. Sherlock couldn't have a discussion with his so-called best friend about what he thought of Sherlock's girlfriend. Should that conversation take place before or after he advised John that the new Mrs Watson was a deadly assassin? Would it be a competition about whose partner was more trustworthy and less likely to incapacitate you with a lethal weapon?

Sherlock reached for his arm and pulled out the IV line from the cannula.

"All right, Shezza?" Billy said as he came in from the balcony.

"Just removing this," Sherlock said, indicating his arm, "So I can move around."

Billy moved the wheelchair aside and handed Sherlock the remote control for the projector. He advised him that the middle button would take the unit off sleep mode. When Billy made to walk away, Sherlock called him back.

"Could you..." Sherlock said, lifting an arm to indicate that he wanted Billy to help him stand up. He didn't want Rose to see that he could barely hoist himself from her sofa without tearing some vital organ. "Thank you," he said breathlessly to Billy once he was on his feet again.

"'s'all right, mate."

Billy joined Rose in the kitchen as Sherlock retrieved his jacket from its resting place on the back of the armchair. He slid one arm in, then paused to draw breath and visualise how he was going to insert his other arm without twisting his torso. It was going to be impossible. He didn't want to ask Rose. His sense of helplessness was increasing in direct proportion to the rise in her concern.

Sherlock slipped his arm out of his jacket once more. He had a plan; it was a pretty pathetic sort of plan, really, but he needed to talk to her anyway.

Sherlock dropped his jacket to the floor behind the armchair and strode back to the middle of the living room.

He called Rose's name as he set about carefully rolling down his sleeve so that the cannula was covered up. He could at least do _that_ by himself.

Rose wore a pleasant, accommodating sort of smile on her face as she entered the living area.

"Yes?" she asked.

"Are you okay with John coming here?"

Her expression lost its fake edge and she said, "I'm sure that finding out his wife shot you will be more upsetting to him than realising you're hiding out in some prostitute's flat."

"Rose."

"You know what I mean."

Sherlock set his jaw firmly.

"But are you okay?" he asked.

"Yes."

_Liar._

He took a couple of steps toward her, placing his hands in his trouser pockets in an effort to appear casual and unaffected by the ongoing stabbing pain just below his ribs.

"After tonight," he said, "I may find it difficult to come and visit you."

"Oh, Sherlock. You shouldn't—"

"But I'd like you to visit me."

There it was. Her brows forming an arc of pity.

"Of course, I will."

"In hospital."

"Yes, in hospital. Why would that be a problem?"

It shouldn't be a problem in light of the ease with which Rose and Billy had assisted in his escape this evening. But Sherlock didn't know what his brother was playing at. He'd received no more than a text stating, " _I hope you know what you're doing_ ," from Mycroft, and no interference whatsoever. That told Sherlock one thing: Mycroft Holmes was currently tracking a person of interest and he couldn't take his eyes from the surveillance for one second. Someone abroad most likely. _Possibly_ Poland.

And why would his big brother be concerned about Sherlock leaving the hospital anyway? It wasn't as if Sherlock had been escaping in order to obtain a fix in some unsavoury doss house. As Janine had remarked, they had attached the drugs _to_ him. Why _would_ he need to leave? Of course there was the danger of the case, but what he regarded as Sherlock's _trivial_ 'adventures' had never been an avenue of worry for Mycroft.

But John Watson was another source of concern. The ex-army doctor, after encountering Sherlock tonight, would insist on some kind of security measures to ensure Sherlock couldn't go walkabout again.

"My brother may put minders in place," Sherlock replied.

Rose shrugged lightly and moved toward him. "We'll find a way. Billy's very clever at those sorts of things."

A smile grew on Sherlock's face, and he held out an arm to Rose. He would've preferred to have held her firmly in his embrace, but he was already in a lot of pain. Rose seemed to understand that she could only hug one side of him.

"I need to finish getting dressed," he murmured into her hair. "I don't want John to think he's doing rounds."

Rose moved in front of him, and unnecessarily straightened out his shirt. "Surely you don't need to dress up for him. He knows you've been shot."

"Then he'll be worrying about my medical condition when I need him to concentrate on what I have to say." Sherlock turned his head in a mock show of scanning the room. "Now, where did you put my jacket?"

"It was... Oh..." Rose said, immediately turning to the armchair. "Ah, here it is."

Behind her, Sherlock smiled in triumph. Rose stooped to retrieve Sherlock's "fallen" jacket and shook it out a little. She turned around and held it out to him. Now all he had to do was turn his back on her and slip his arms into the sleeves.

This he achieved with the minimum of fuss on his part. On Rose's however: she continued to brush dust from his jacket and attempted to straighten his lapels. She was hovering again.

"How about a cup of tea?" Sherlock asked, feeling the blood beginning to leech from his face. Evidently, standing for too long wasn't a good idea in his condition.

"Are you allowed to drink tea?"

"Since when did a cup of tea hurt anybody?" he quipped. He smiled, masking a grimace in response to the physical reminder that he wasn't as indestructible as he once thought he was. Of course he wasn't going to drink the tea.

Thankfully, Rose left him alone, obviously feeling good about having an excuse to keep busy and helpful.

Sherlock half-sat, half-collapsed into the armchair. He closed his eyes. He had approximately eleven minutes of peace. Peace from Rose fluttering about, while war raged within.

"All right, Shezza?"

Sherlock breathed out heavily and opened his eyes. Billy stood before him, dressed in his hoody with Rose's yellow blanket draped over his shoulders. In his hand he held the bottom half of a milk container.

"Jus' gonna set up across the road. Do you wan' another hit of—"

"No. Take it. Do you have the phone with you?"

Billy patted his pants pocket. Sherlock found comfort in the fact that he'd only had to explain the plan to Billy once back in the hospital earlier this afternoon. Billy had taken care of most of it: getting Rose's help, obtaining all the necessary items, and more importantly (and impressively) Billy had traced back the origins of Mary Morstan's stolen identity to a stillborn buried in Chiswick Cemetery in 1972.

"I'll send John down to you as soon as I've explained everything to him."

"Okay."

Billy left the flat, taking the wheelchair with him, leaving Sherlock to attempt to mentally traverse the mountain-tops of the Himalayas in an effort to numb the pain a little. Unfortunately, it may only have worked if he had conducted the exercise as soon as he had been taken off the morphine. It was too late now.

"That's the door," Rose said, striding past him and heading for the front door.

Sherlock instantly opened his eyes and straightened up a little. He hadn't heard it. Rose grasped the key then glanced around at Sherlock. She gave him a reassuring smile before unlocking the deadbolts.

"John, hi. Come in."

Sherlock commended Rose on her ability to keep her voice pleasant, but not too light as to disrespect the seriousness of the situation. John had dragged his stunned gaze from Rose to Sherlock beyond her. The doctor in him had him making a beeline straight to his patient.

"Sherlock, _Jesus._ "

"I'm fine, John."

"No, you're bloody not."

John dragged over a footstool and immediately sat in front of Sherlock. He lifted one side of Sherlock's jacket, to check that his bullet wound wasn't bleeding through, presumably, then took Sherlock's wrist in his hand. John glanced at his watch as he felt Sherlock's pulse.

"John."

John continued silently counting.

"Right," he said eventually. "Slightly raised, but not tachycardic."

Sherlock hoped John wouldn't check his pulse again when he was standing up.

"I'm making tea..." Rose said from behind John, the inflection in her voice implying that she was indirectly asking John if he would also like a cuppa. She was trying to keep things civilised in an otherwise charged situation. Good on her.

John turned his head only slightly toward Rose. " _He can't have tea._ "

Sherlock glanced up at Rose. He gave her an imperceptible shake of his head. She gave him a resigned smile in return then headed off toward the kitchen. She knew when to make herself scarce. Sherlock could've smacked John in the face for the way he spoke to Rose, but now was not the time to antagonise his doctor.

"John. There's no easy way to tell you this."

John's expression immediately hardened. Naturally Doctor Watson would know from previous experience around Sherlock Holmes that forthcoming revelations were often of the dramatic variety.

"Mary shot me."

John blinked several times then tilted his head. It was amazing how such a mannerism in a soldier seemed to imply that they were seconds away from doing you harm.

"I'm... s-sorry?" John asked.

 _You heard me perfectly well,_ Sherlock thought.

"Mary shot me. In Magnussen's office."

John breathed in abruptly, then exhaled just as forcefully.

"My wife, Mary," he said, blinking again in disbelief.

"Yes."

"Or someone who looked like Mary? Y-you were in shock..."

"I wasn't in shock when she turned around to point her gun at me," Sherlock said in as calm a voice as he could muster. "Nor when she asked me if you were with me."

John shook his head minutely and rose from the footstool.

"You're... delusional."

"Do I look delusional?"

"Sherlock, one more word—"

"John, just listen for a minute. We don't have much time." The strain in Sherlock's voice may have hinted that _he_ didn't have much time.

John didn't appear to notice. He stalked away from Sherlock then spun around.

"You're talking about _my wife!_ "

"Yes."

The air in the room seemed to crackle around John.

"Magnussen obviously has something on her, "Sherlock continued. "I think I can get her to confess, but she won't if she thinks you're in the room."

" _Confess_ ," John repeated, as if the word were poison.

"But not here," Sherlock added. "She needs to think we're in a secure environment. You need to stay hidden. I can get her talking."

_Oh, Sherlock... I will kill you._

John shook his bowed head as he turned from Sherlock again.

"Just trust me on this, John. If you could—"

" _She's my wife!_ " John yelled, rounding on Sherlock. " _The mother of my child!"_

Sherlock remained perfectly composed.

"And this doesn't change those facts."

From the vicinity of the coffee table, a phone began to ring. Sherlock eyed Rose's bag curiously. He had an inkling.

"Rose," he called.

John had turned his back on Sherlock once more as Rose came striding in.

"Sorry," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

"No, it's.. it's fine," Sherlock reassured her. "Just—"

"It's Mary!" Rose said, her voice stifling a panic as she stared at the caller ID.

John's attention immediately focussed on Rose. _Of course he doesn't know that Mary has already met Rose,_ Sherlock thought.

"Just answer it," Sherlock calmly told Rose. "And answer her truthfully."

He saw Rose swallow before she pressed the Speaker button. John took a tiny step in Rose's direction, then stood, frozen to the spot, all senses honed in on Rose.

"Hello?"

"Rose, do you live in Leinster Gardens?" came Mary's business-like voice through the speaker. No preamble, no small-talk, just straight to the point.

Rose's eyes met Sherlock's. He could tell she wasn't breathing. He gave her a tiny nod.

"Yes," she replied.

"Is Sherlock with you?"

Rose's eyes widened in alarm. John straightened up, standing taller, soldier-like.

" _Rose, is Sherlock with you?_ " Mary asked again, forcefully. Impatiently. She had business to conduct.

Again Sherlock offered Rose a nod in reassurance.

"Ye..." Rose cleared her throat and tried again. "Yes."

There was silence as Mary had presumably ended the call.

"She's on her way," Sherlock said, as Rose dropped her phone into her bag.

John came to life again. He nodded to himself as if he'd just convinced himself of a particular point. He reached into his back pocket and drew out his phone. He said, without making eye contact with Sherlock, "She'll ring me and tell me you're here."

Sherlock didn't feel the need to contradict John at this point in time. He exchanged a glance with Rose, then leant forward. He gestured lightly with his hand toward her, silently indicating that he needed help getting out of the chair. It was almost over, and he didn't mind letting Rose know that he needed her help now. John was otherwise preoccupied. He had his back to them, and was staring at the phone in his hand.

"My coat," Sherlock said in a low voice to Rose.

She crossed the room, carefully avoiding John Watson, and retrieved Sherlock's coat from the hooks by the door. Rose helped him put it on, as Sherlock kept his eyes on John. His best friend was still staring at his phone screen, willing it to ring. Its silence was rather telling. There was no need for Sherlock to say anything to him. This was the last clue that John needed to get him to accept Sherlock's plan.

Sherlock looked down at Rose who was now fussing again with the front of his coat.

"I'll be fine," Sherlock told her.

Her eyes were glistening with unshed tears.

"I'll wait to hear from you," she said. "When you're back in hospital," she added grimly.

Rose left him for the balcony. She knew her role. She had to wait until they were all inside the empty house, then she had to call a cab for them. Next, she and Billy would pack away the projector and return it to her store. And then she would wait to hear from him.

"Where do you want me?" John asked Sherlock without turning around. He had dropped the hand that had been holding his phone.

"Downstairs," Sherlock replied. "And across the road. Billy's waiting for you. He'll show you where to sit."

John nodded without turning around. He exited the flat. Sherlock listened for his footfalls to die out on the stairwell before he drew his own phone from his trouser pocket as well as the remote for the projector. He had to wait for Billy's call so he could hear the moment Mary appeared.

The game, it seemed, was on.


	64. Mundane is Good, Sometimes

Sherlock sighed in satisfaction at the absence of the constant beeping that previously interrupted his sleep. Every two hours, he had had to put up with, "Sorry love, just checking your blood pressure." But now, a steady, light breath cooled his neck instead. Sherlock turned his head and pressed his lips to Rose's forehead. She lightly stirred, causing a tiny fluttering in his stomach.

He loved the way her arms were tucked into his side, as a precaution, she'd said, against her flopping an arm over his abdomen and hitting his wound on the other side. Her peaceful sleep filled him with a warmth he hadn't felt in weeks. It was as if her love coiled around and seeped into him by osmosis; she was content enough to fall asleep beside him in a tiny hospital bed even though she knew she only had a few hours of uninterrupted visiting time.

"Do I have to go?" she murmured, her eyes still shut.

Sherlock's chest grew heavy at the thought of Rose's impending absence.

"In a few minutes," he replied.

Rose hummed in response—agreeably or in protest, Sherlock couldn't really tell. But she nestled in closer and brushed his jawline with her lips. He felt her retract a little, then a tiny chuckle escaped her.

"Next time I'll come with a razor," she whispered.

"I'm sorry," he said, lifting a hand to scratch his jaw. "They did ask if I wanted a shave, but I didn't want anybody here touching me... well, more than they already do. I did ask my brother if he could send over his barber, but he laughed at me as if I was joking."

Rose was silent for a few seconds before she brushed her lips over his cheek.

"Actually, I like it," she murmured, cupping his other cheek with her hand and lightly skimming the bristles with her thumb.

Desire and need rippled through Sherlock—an unwelcome sensation in this environment.

For the past week and a half, Rose had been stealing onto the ward late at night, assisted by whatever well-compensated porter was on duty at the time. At first, Sherlock was confused and disorientated. His earliest post-emergency-surgery memories had him being wheeled along the corridors for an x-ray or an ultrasound or something deemed important, and someone in surgical scrubs had kissed him on the forehead telling him she'd see him later. And strangely enough, the porter who was transporting him at the time looked suspiciously like Bill Wiggins.

Rose had laughed when Sherlock recalled that story. She and Billy were having a fun time of it, Sherlock discovered, playing at hospital ward infiltration along with a couple of porters and one domestic cleaner, all of whom Billy had bribed.

She had visited Sherlock on a couple of other occasions after her initial visit, Rose told him. She mostly sat reading magazines or case studies, holding his hand while he was still out of it. Sherlock only recalled the time he actually woke properly, murmuring, "F-fuck – off – Mycroft," because he thought it was his brother sitting beside him, rifling through government papers. It was a pleasant surprise when he heard Rose's high laugh, and she had bent over him to kiss his forehead. He was more than happy to wake from his semi-slumberous state then.

During Rose's visits she mostly chatted to him about Billy's continuing adventures in the drug den, her work at the store, or articles she'd been reading. On occasion, she'd recall the sad stories about the women she encountered during her counselling work. She'd yawn incessantly throughout, though, and it had only been in the last three nights that Sherlock invited her to lie down in bed with him to catch up on sleep. He could do with not hearing some drug-addicted sex worker's tragic story for one evening, but he could also see that Rose was becoming more and more sleep-deprived as the week progressed.

"To sleep," he had said, hastily qualifying his suggestion of her lying next to him when she had quirked a suspicious brow. "Perchance to dream," he had added, one corner of his mouth stretching into a smile. "I'm far too drugged up for any of your usual shenanigans."

And so they had slept together, with Rose waking and leaving his company at around 2am each night. His pillow would smell like her shampoo long after she'd gone. Sherlock continually felt pangs of longing as he breathed in her scent.

As Rose's kisses became more pronounced along Sherlock's jawline, he reached over and turned on the reading lamp.

"No, Rose," he said wearily. Regretfully.

Rose's sleepy, heavy-lidded eyes squinted at the sudden illumination.

"What time is it?"

Sherlock retrieved Rose's phone from the bedside table and glanced at the clock.

"Almost two."

Rose sat up and stretched her arms high. Sherlock watched her, wishing they were in _his_ bed in Baker Street and that she didn't have to leave at all. How long and mundane was this process of recovery?

Rose left the bed for the adjoining bathroom to freshen up. Sherlock's spirits sank lower as the seconds ticked by. Rose returned and silently slipped her feet into her shoes as she leant on the bed. Sherlock stretched out a hand and ran his fingers along the length of her arm. He thrust his bottom lip into a pout when she glanced up and smiled at him.

His sullen expression turned Rose's smile into one of affection.

"I'll be back at the end of the week," she said, leaning over to kiss his pout. Sherlock tutted before she got there.

It was annoying that Rose and Billy's infiltration plot relied heavily on the cooperation of just two of the porters whose rosters didn't always include the nightshift or this floor. And exactly what was the role of the cleaner? If Sherlock had been in a position to organise her clandestine visits, in all likelihood, Rose would have ended up as one of the nursing staff, alternating between catering and portering—with perhaps a sprinkling of thoracic surgery thrown in for good measure—just so she could be here twenty-four hours per day for his own amusement. But Sherlock couldn't independently organise his own bathroom needs at the moment, let alone manipulating groups of people to do his bidding.

After their usual goodbye ritual was complete, Sherlock sank heavily into his pillow and watched Rose as she cautiously peered through the gap in the door. She glanced around, gave him one last smile in farewell and vanished into the corridor and out of his otherwise dull existence.

* * *

Sherlock was standing near the window, clad in his familiar grey pyjamas and dark burgundy dressing gown when Rose entered late Friday night. He held onto the window frame to assist in turning around when he heard the door click shut behind her.

"Up and about?" Rose asked, swiftly removing her coat. "That's an improvement."

"Yes," he replied tetchily. "A great achievement. I can now move between my bed and the window at the pace of a snail. I think the people of London can sleep soundly in their beds at night knowing that Sherlock Holmes will be on the case should a crime occur within one yard of my hospital bed."

Rose chuckled lightly despite Sherlock's obvious foul mood. She draped her coat over the end of the bed then moved toward him to assist him to cross the floor.

"No, Rose. I can do this. I've been performing this feat all day. I feel quite accomplished." Sherlock sighed heavily as he gingerly climbed into bed. "By the end of the week I will have made it as far as the nurses' station."

"Any progress is good progress," Rose said, without much thought. Sherlock tutted in response.

As Rose arranged the bedcovers over him she assumed Sherlock felt a greater sense of freedom in movement now that the morphine drip was no longer attached. But she could see exhaustion marring his features from his jaunt across the floor.

She perched on the bed beside him, whispered her 'hello,' before planting a kiss on his lips. Sherlock's mouth immediately turned down at the edges—his new default expression.

"Why don't you lie beside me and do nice things to me."

He was definitely feeling sorry for himself today, Rose thought.

"Let me freshen up first," she replied. "I've just come straight from work."

" _Work_?" Sherlock repeated, as Rose rounded the bed and headed for the bathroom. "But it's... late."

"I'll tell you about it in a minute."

Rose took her bag to the bathroom with her. She undressed as quickly as she could and donned a t-shirt and track pants—comfy clothing in which she could lie down next to Sherlock and _do nice things_ to him. She longed to have a warm shower, but the poor man seemed desperate for her attention. She knew he was going out of his mind with boredom, prompted by a lack of stimulating company, and irritated by the physical limitations his injury had imposed on him.

After she returned to the room, Rose climbed into bed. Sherlock had lowered the head of the bed and had placed his second pillow beside the first for Rose. She settled in and told him she was now providing counselling at a women's refuge centre in North London every Friday night. She ignored his under-the-breath scoff, choosing to card her fingers through his hair and run her thumb over his brow in an effort to smooth away his frown.

"Did you have any visitors today?"

Sherlock opened his eyes, if only to roll them toward the ceiling.

"I have the same visitors every day."

"Well, you like your routines..."

"At precisely 9am, John Watson enters my room. He sighs heavily, says my name by way of a greeting, then busies himself reading my chart. He clucks his tongue twice, frowning the entire time, before he strolls over to the window with his hands folded behind his back. After several minutes, he nods, asks if I'd like the newspaper, then he leaves the room in order to purchase the aforementioned paper."

"He's probably finding the situation very awkward."

Sherlock closed his eyes once more, his face softening under Rose's affectionate ministrations.

"He doesn't even mention her name," he continued, his eyes still shut. "He barely refers to the shooting. I'm sure he'd like to think it was I who carelessly impeded the flight of an independently stray bullet."

Rose smiled to herself at Sherlock's musings. At least his mental acuity hadn't suffered at all.

Her fingertips had changed direction and she now followed the contours of Sherlock's brow, along his eye socket toward those sharp cheekbones.

"Give him time," she said, keeping her voice soft in a bid to lower Sherlock's stress levels.

Rose was fascinated by Sherlock's unshaven skin around his jawline and lips. Prior to this _case_ (she mentally grimaced at the word) the world's only Consulting Detective was more often than not immaculately dressed and groomed. His idea of 'casual clothing' used to be nothing more than his dressing gown worn over his button up shirt and suit trousers. His drug-taking in the last few weeks, the recent shooting and subsequent hospitalisation had shown him in many states of dishevelment and helplessness.

She stroked his bristly cheek then ran her thumb over his soft pout, feeling the beginnings of a moustache above his lips and a beard on his chin. Sherlock hummed at the light brush of her fingertips that followed.

Rose couldn't resist the urge any longer. Cupping his face in her hand, she leant over and pressed her lips to his. Her skin began to shiver in delight when Sherlock's lips parted beneath hers. He tasted divine—familiar and sweet with an underlying restlessness. One of Sherlock's hands had found its way to her nape, and he entwined his fingers into her hair. His other hand circled her waist, slipping underneath her t-shirt and warming her back with soft caresses.

Holding her weight away from Sherlock's body, one hand still found its way into his curls. How long had it been since she'd had all of him? It'd been weeks since they'd been intimate—not since that Thursday she'd spent at Baker Street being pampered by Sherlock. She felt a warm excitement rising in her, but she eased back. Would he want this here and now?

Rose could feel a flush creeping across her cheeks as she propped herself up to take in Sherlock's expression. There was a hint of a smile on his lips, and his eyes were darkened by arousal.

Sherlock raised one brow and said, "Are you doing your best to distract me?"

Rose's gaze didn't waver. "Not at all," she replied. "This isn't anywhere near my _best._ "

The smile grew on Sherlock's face. His tugged her down again, capturing her lips in his, then trailed his fingers down the length of her spine underneath her shirt. Sherlock seemed to know that she craved to be touched, but this wasn't about her, not tonight.

With his mouth moving avidly beneath hers, Rose slipped her hand underneath Sherlock's pyjama shirt. It glided southward, but paused when Rose became momentarily distracted by Sherlock's own hand. It had left her back and had followed the contours of her body, coming to lightly cup her breast. His light caress heated the blood rushing beneath her skin. She had to put a stop to his efforts. Was she really so naïve as to think any reciprocation on his part would have no effect on her?

"Wait," she said, breathless and dizzy with desire. "I don't want you to hurt yourself."

"I'm not going to—"

"Shh!"

Her hand slid lower, dipping into his pyjamas until Sherlock emitted his own groan of satisfaction. She longed to feel his mouth against hers again but didn't want him to stir up any more arousal in her. Instead, she lightly nipped along his rough jawline, the smooth expanse of his neck and the tender skin around his ear lobe. Satisfied at hearing Sherlock's soft hums of approval, she rose up onto her knees, rearranged the bedcovers and continued exploring him, her mouth trailing her hands. Sherlock's breathing became ragged and unsteady. _Probably a good thing he isn't hooked up to the heart-rate monitor anymore,_ Rose thought.

She straddled his knees—there wasn't enough room on the bed otherwise—and Sherlock gripped her shoulder in anticipation. Whether he was encouraging her or silently pleading with her to cease and desist she wasn't sure. She wasn't going to allow him to gain the upper hand anyway, not in his condition. And she had work to do.

" _Rose.._."

It thrilled her to hear his voice so rough and desperate. She didn't stop. Clearly he didn't want her to stop. His hands had dived into her hair, his fingers tangling themselves in the loose strands. Rose knew he was only moments away.

Although she hadn't let Sherlock tend to her needs, the sounds of the jagged edge of his pleasure was powerfully arousing. She brought him luxuriously to the peak until he let her go, his hands flopping back to the mattress.

Rose glanced up at him and climbed from the bed. Sherlock's brow was furrowed and his chest rose and fell in quick, shallow bursts. His eyes were closed, but he still managed to fix his pyjamas.

"Are you all right?" she asked, noting his flushed cheeks.

Sherlock's voice was low and gravelly when he responded with a simple, "Yes."

Rose reached out and squeezed his hand.

"I'm going take a shower," she said.

Sherlock's eyes snapped open.

"Why?"

"I might need to douse myself with cold water," she said light-heartedly, fixing Sherlock with a wide grin.

"No," he said, and he ran a hand over the sheet. "I'm sorry, Rose. Lie back down. I'm perfectly capable of—"

"No, it's fine, Sherlock." Rose had rounded the bed and she rubbed his arm. "I'm joking. I've worked two jobs today, and I'm on opening the shop tomorrow. I'd really like a shower so I can just crash when I get home." She left his side and headed toward the bathroom. "And you're quite relaxed now. I don't want you to try anything too strenuous. I won't be long."

She heard Sherlock exhale deeply as she closed the bathroom door. She had intended to only have a quick shower, but the warm spray from the hospital's shower nozzle was so strong and soothing that Rose could have stayed there for hours.

When she finally emerged from the bathroom, towel-drying her hair, she noticed how still Sherlock appeared to be. She stealthily approached the bed. His features were soft and his breathing was slow and light. He seemed so peaceful and content that Rose didn't want to wake him by climbing into bed next to him. Besides, her hair was wet and she didn't want to dampen the pillow.

Resigned to her decision, Rose bent over and kissed Sherlock's forehead.

"I love you," she whispered. "I'll see you tomorrow night."

Sherlock didn't stir.

* * *

Rose was able to see Sherlock again on Saturday night because Cartwright, one of the porters, had a couple of nightshifts in a row that included this ward. Sherlock was in bed reading a newspaper when she arrived. He carefully folded the paper on his lap and scrutinised Rose through narrow eyes when she approached him.

"Hello," she said, smiling warmly as she discarded her coat at the end of the bed.

Sherlock's expression remained unchanging.

"What happened to you last night? Were you washed down the drain?"

Rose huffed a tiny laugh as she made her way to Sherlock's bedside.

"You were asleep when I came out of the bathroom," she replied.

Sherlock tilted his head in a manner that suggested he believed she was lying.

"Was I," he said, his voice dropping to a challenging pitch. Rose resisted the urge to laugh.

"Yes."

Sherlock began folding up the paper, his mouth turned down at the corners. As he placed the newspaper onto his bedside table, he added, "So you left without saying goodbye."

Rose kept her expression neutral. It wouldn't do to find amusement in Sherlock's over-dramatisation of last night's events. Clearly the man had little else with which to occupy his mind, since he was concocting a conspiracy for the way she had left his company last night.

"I _did_ say goodbye," she replied, slipping off her shoes. "You were fast asleep."

"That doesn't mean you can leave, Rose." Sherlock pulled the bedcovers down for her as she climbed in beside him. "You're supposed to fall asleep next to me. And if you're going to have an entire pampering session in the shower, kindly do it on your own time, not mine."

Sherlock turned from Rose to press the remote control to lower the head of the bed.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock," Rose said, projecting contrition into her voice. She accepted a pillow from Sherlock and added, with a shrug, "I had a long day yesterday."

Sherlock settled down onto his side and waited for Rose to shuffle alongside him. He said, "And don't think for one second that I want you here just to bring me to orgasm. You are so much more than a receptacle for my penis."

This time a laugh did escape Rose.

"Thank you," she said, chuckling. "That's nice to know. You just seemed a bit... tense, yesterday." She reached out and ran her fingers through his hair. After Sherlock had closed his eyes for a little while and the tension had eased from his face, Rose asked, "So how was your day?"

Sherlock sighed deeply before he answered.

"You know how my day was. It's the same every day." He opened his eyes and rolled onto his back, prompting Rose to withdraw her hand from his hair. He gazed at the ceiling as he spoke. "John at 9am, either my brother or one of his minions _checking in_ at eleven, Molly Hooper during her lunch break around 1pm, John again after six, Mrs Hudson every two days at midday, and every other day Lestrade at dinner time. And in between these visitors who supposedly care about me, I have the hospital staff and their general busy-body-ness, delivering food or poking me with sticks and asking pointless questions." Sherlock sighed. "And I'm bored reading their past in their collars and socks, and their work history in their eyebrows. I've reduced so many of them to tears it's getting tiresome. My parents will be here tomorrow. Sunday seems to be the day they like travelling to London, apparently. I tried to tell the security service woman outside that they're really terrorists in disguise and they shouldn't be permitted entry, but she won't take me at my word _for some reason._ "

"There's a security service woman outside?"

Sherlock turned his head to make eye contact with Rose. "Yes, Rose. Man, woman, robot. They alternate. How do you not know these things?"

"I've never been stopped and questioned by anybody."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes a little, as if calculating something. "That's because my brother finds your presence acceptable," he murmured, speaking and deducing at the same time.

Rose's stomach churned at this prospect. Her throat felt tight when she asked, "Does he?"

"They must be conducting surveillance from further along the corridor," Sherlock mused, "allowing you entry unmolested. But they would only be monitoring your comings and goings. Mycroft probably thinks you're here for one purpose only: my happy ending. And if that keeps my spirits up, then he'll happily turn a blind eye. If he had any idea that you previously aided and abetted my last escape then you would've been denied entry. Billy isn't allowed to visit me during the day. He tried once."

"Did he?"

"He's not permitted because he looks like one of my homeless network. I suppose in a way he is."

" _Billy?_ _Homeless?_ "

"I'm being denied my basic human rights, Rose: no mobile phone communication, no people to do my bidding, and no cigarettes. I'm dying for a smoke."

"Wait..." Rose said, her heart beginning to race. "You don't have your phone?"

"No. My brother confiscated it."

"When? Because I've been sending you texts."

"Like what?"

"Nothing really... important. And you never reply, but that's not unusual. Just things like: ' _I'll see you soon,'_ or ' _I'm working late. I'll be there at 12:45.'_ "

"Well, then, you've been texting Mycroft all this time. He took my phone from my belongings as soon as I was re-admitted. As long as you don't write things like ' _I've got that ladder you wanted and the van's parked around the corner,_ ' you should be fine."

"I'm pretty sure I don't want you escaping anyway. Not after last time."

Rose had waited days to hear about Sherlock's condition after he'd left her flat for his confrontation with Mary Watson. Rose had dutifully called a taxi when she saw Sherlock entering number 23 Leinster Gardens from her vantage point on the balcony. Billy joined her there, and together they watched as John, Mary, then finally Sherlock exited the empty house, and they all climbed into the waiting cab. It pained Rose to witness Sherlock's careful movements as he made his way across the footpath to the taxi. She left Billy on the balcony to pack away the projector, making excuses that she wanted to fix them both a cup of tea, but in reality, she had wanted to cry in private.

Billy surprised Rose by his ability to organise their hospital infiltration. But she'd had no idea that there was the added difficulty of a security detail provided by Sherlock's omniscient older brother. Did he really know and approve of her coming here because he assumed they were conjugal visits? And did he think she was still a sex worker and was being paid by Sherlock? Rose wasn't sure which aspect of Mycroft Holmes's assumptions she found more appalling.

"I'm perfectly fine, Rose," Sherlock said, rousing her from her thoughts. "I just need to practise walking about, but I should be home by next week sometime."

Sherlock had rolled to his side once more and had extended an arm, inviting Rose to snuggle into him. Rose remained quiet as Sherlock hugged her close.

And then he scoffed.

"What?" she asked, lifting her face toward his.

Sherlock reached up and ran his fingers through a strand of Rose's hair. He wrinkled his nose.

"Your hair smells like that nondescript stuff again."

"Oh," she replied feebly. "Sorry. I ran out of the brand you bought me. I thought I'd finish off what I had at home first before I bought any more. Money's a bit tight at the..."

Rose trailed off, immediately regretting her words. There were so many things she still had to make arrangements for in preparation for becoming a full-time student. While Sherlock had been in hospital, he'd had no idea that Rose had been packing up her things and preparing to house-sit her parents' house when it went on the market. They would be leaving for Scotland soon after she commenced her Forensic Psychology course at the London Metropolitan University. It was only a short-term solution, but it allowed her to live rent-free when her work hours at the home entertainment store were dramatically reduced due to her study hours. She hoped her parents' house would take a while to sell.

"Billy's still got my card," Sherlock said. "Obviously he's using my funds to bribe everyone left, right and centre. Not that I mind, of course. Why don't you use it to buy yourself some groceries?"

"No," Rose replied—far too quickly, she thought in hindsight.

She heard Sherlock lightly sigh.

"Well, there's also your shampoo and soap at my flat. Perhaps you could go around, have a warm bath, and while you're there, collect my laptop to bring here."

Rose smiled a little at Sherlock attempting to sweeten the deal by reminding her about his bathtub.

"I suppose I could do that," she said. "Is there anything else you need?"

"Yes, the mobile phone Billy handed to Mary, if you can find it. I need to get in touch with the outside world again. Although I think Mary pocketed it."

Rose's throat ran dry at the sound of her name.

"Mary," she said. "Has she tried to visit you?"

"No, she's not on Mycroft's list of approved visitors. Although I'm sure she wouldn't have any trouble finding her way in here, if she really wanted to. Don't worry about her. She needs my help more than she needs my silence. And as for my brother…" Sherlock paused, his eyes taking on a faraway look. "I was able to convince him that the shooting was an accident, a misunderstanding… but I have the feeling that there are some things Mycroft knows and others he pretends he doesn't know. Just which is which is anybody's guess and extremely frustrating to think about. I expected him to interfere more than this."

Rose remained silent, lost in her own thoughts about Sherlock's older brother, and Mary Watson, the would-be assassin.

Sherlock leant forward and kissed her forehead.

He cleared his throat and whispered, "Lie back, Rose. You know, there isn't anything wrong with my hands. And I want to treat you to the best hospital visit you've ever had."


	65. We're Just Alike, Except You're Boring

Rose had the key in her hand by the time she arrived on the doorstep of 221. She had already scanned the length of Baker Street for any obvious signs of someone watching or following her. She quickly let herself in and silently closed the door behind her. Listening carefully, she stood in the entranceway for a few seconds. On hearing no signs of life from within, she slipped off her shoes so she could take the stairs without making the boards creak or reverberate beneath her feet.

Rose concluded that the landlady had retired for the night anyway. It was on half eleven, and she had wanted to take Sherlock up on his suggestion to have a long soak in his bathtub before grabbing his laptop. She would take it home and deliver it to the bored detective in hospital when she visited again.

It had been a few days since she'd last seen Sherlock. Cartwright didn't have another shift until tomorrow, so she had put off going around to Baker Street until the day before her next visit to the hospital. Rose didn't know what had happened to Wilson, the second porter. They didn't seem to have the benefit of his shifts anymore. Perhaps Billy hadn't bribed him enough. And it had seemed odd that neither porter ever had more than a day or two on nightshift. Rose thought that shift workers usually had at least several days in a row, possibly a whole week or two.

Rose pushed through the half-open living room door and was startled to see him. He sat just as he had three years ago: in his armchair in front of the fireplace, barefoot, and staring, unseeing, into space. But this time he was nursing a glass of whiskey.

"Oh," Rose said into the stale air, her heart beating out a new rhythm. "John. Hello."

John Watson barely reacted, only to stare at her through beady, glazed eyes. Suddenly he seemed to register who was stood in front of him. He blinked a couple of times.

"What are you… how did you…" he rasped, then he cleared his throat and started again. "How did you get in here?"

"I have a key," Rose replied. She quickly regained her composure and strode across the rug confidently, despite John's less than cordial reception. Rose deposited her overnight bag onto a living room chair and said, without turning to face John, "Sherlock wants his laptop."

John gave a dry cough behind Rose as she closed up Sherlock's computer that was sitting cold and lifeless on the table.

"What for?" John asked.

 _You have to ask?_ Rose thought, carefully winding up the electricity cable.

"Because he's bored," she replied.

She heard Sherlock's best friend snort out a laugh. Rose felt emboldened by her task, and more specifically, by the fact that Sherlock had asked her to fetch his computer and had given her a key to his flat a long time ago. She had every right to be here.

"So how did  _you_  get in here?" she asked, parroting John's question back to him.

"I also have a key."

There was no need to ask the man why he was hanging out in Sherlock Holmes's flat rather than spending the night at home with his wife. It was obvious. But she did wonder how often he had been coming here or if he'd been staying all this time.

"D'you… do you visit him in… hospital, then?" John asked, slightly slurring his words. "Outside of visiting hours?"

Rose smiled to herself. This was the longest conversation she'd had with John Watson in three years. It was a pity he was as tanked as he had been the last time.

"Yes," she replied.

"And how much does he pay you to do that?"

And there it was. What had it taken, all of thirty seconds for John Watson to let her know he thought she was still a prostitute? And why would he think otherwise if Sherlock had never told him? What happened to Sherlock's reassurances that Mary would say something to John during the Watsons' honeymoon? Rose hadn't known how she was portrayed through John Watson's eyes. Clearly she was still a sex worker. She felt a fierce heat cross her cheeks.

As she shoved Sherlock's computer into her overnight bag, she wondered if she should even qualify John's question with a response.

"Is it a flat rate?" John probed. "Pay your monthly overheads? So you just... show up to hospital rooms on demand, and Baker Street in between cases." She heard a tiny chuckle escape him. He'd clearly been struck by some other humorous thought. "Weddings... funerals..."

Rose straightened up and turned to meet John's gaze, but he was looking absently at the floor, a tiny smile gracing his lips. Her heart thundered in her chest and she clenched her jaw in readiness for a snappy retort.

Lifting his eyes, John gestured at her with his drink before asking, "Did he give you a month off while he was… doing the maid of honour?"

Rose's insides roiled in anger. John leant back in his chair and swirled the amber liquid in his glass. Rose looked down at him, the sad, drunk man. So his heart had been broken? He felt betrayed by the one he loved? Rose could excuse his behaviour due to recent events, but he had also treated her with the same contempt the morning after his wedding, stone cold sober and newly married. He had no excuse for being a rude bastard back then, so why should she make excuses for his behaviour tonight?

On the other hand, Rose was used to this type of aggressive behaviour by people she was offering counselling to. The way they lashed out at her always indicated some deeper problem that had nothing to do with her. Unlike most people Rose had met in the course of her work, she knew what was troubling John Watson.

"He didn't have sex with her," Rose replied, outwardly remaining calm even though her heart thundered along at an alarming rate. "And I'm surprised you of all people believe what's written in the papers about Sherlock Holmes."

John huffed derisively but he had dropped his gaze again. He took one last swig of his drink, draining the glass. Rose zipped up her bag, then moved toward the fireplace. John looked up as if surprised when she sat down in Sherlock's chair. She leant forward as if to confide in him.

"It's quite obvious what you think of me. In fact, the last time you and I spoke, I told you I was a prostitute and that Sherlock had been paying me to have sex with him." John's eyes widened a little at Rose's words and he sat up taller. He seemed just that little bit less inebriated than she had initially thought now that he was focussed on her. Perhaps he was casting his mind back to the time in question. Rose ventured to continue. "That was the truth… at the time. But it's definitely not the case any more. I guess no one has ever set you straight, so I don't blame you for thinking Sherlock's still paying me to be his companion."

"S'what are you saying?"

Rose maintained a steady gaze as she said, "Sherlock and I are in a relationship."

There was a flicker of non-comprehension in John's eyes before lines appeared in his brow.

"You and Sherlock?" he slowly repeated.

"Yes."

John maintained eye contact with Rose for a moment before looking away. He nodded minutely, as if he was digesting that information. He suddenly drew breath and said, "Well, I need another drink."

Rose quickly stood up before John did and said, "I was thinking of putting the kettle on." As she brushed past John's chair, she reached down and swiped up his empty glass. "Tea or coffee?"

She heard John splutter something incoherent as she entered the kitchen.

"Coffee..." He cleared his throat as he stood up. "Yes, I'd better." He made his way into the kitchen. Sighing deeply, he raked a hand over his face and added, "I have to work tomorrow."

He leant heavily onto the kitchen table and folded his arms across his chest, while Rose filled the kettle. She could feel his eyes on her as she busied herself fetching the cups and the cafetière. John seemed to come alive at the moment. He moved forward and opened an overhead cabinet.

"What are you looking for?" Rose asked as she retrieved the packet of ground coffee from the shelf above her.

"Oh," John said, eyeing the packet in her hands. "It's over there now." He gave her a sheepish grin. "It moved."

"Did it?" Rose turned her attention back to the cups. "I usually make tea, so I wouldn't know."

As Rose filled the cafetière, John walked over to the fridge and retrieved the milk.

"So... um," he said, returning to her side. He deposited the milk onto the counter beside the mugs and said, "How long has this been going on for... if you don't mind me asking."

John's polite qualification initially threw Rose.

"What... us?"

"Your... relationship."

Rose noted the change in John's tone, compared to when she had first entered the flat. It had grown softer. He was speaking to her like a normal person.

"Not long," she replied, feeling her eyes beginning to prickle. She kept her head down and slowly dunked a tea bag into her mug. "I mean, it just sort of grew out of... out of... what we once had. Since Christmas, I suppose."

John was silent again. He had moved back to lean against the table.

"And so how long had... that other thing... been going on for? I know, it's... probably none of my business."

Rose clenched her jaw and blinked back tears. It was so long ago. She thought about her time as a university under-graduate—the study groups and workshops, the endless readings, presentations, case-studies and essays; and then of her alter-ego: Shelley, the prostitute, and the brothel in North London. She didn't know why conjuring up images of her and Sherlock's past together seemed to upset her more often these days. She surmised it was because of Charles Augustus Magnussen and what he could expose about her.

"Um..." she began, slowly stirring milk into her tea. "It didn't go on for too long." She retrieved a teaspoon from the drawer and added, "I don't mind telling you. I just don't want you to think I'm a sex worker any more."

John forced out a cough and shuffled uneasily behind her.

"I've known Sherlock for years now," he began, "and I can't recall a time when…" John paused to inhale deeply. "…when he would even need that sort of thing. He always gave the impression that he could get along without it."

An image sprang to Rose's mind: Sherlock lying on the bed in the brothel next to a naked woman, Shelley the prostitute, completely flaccid and saying to her,  _moving right along to the part where we have sex._ A tiny smile graced her lips. And then she conjured up the recent memory of Sherlock lying in his hospital bed, a petulant frown on his face, asking her to  _lie down beside me and do nice things to me._

She huffed an almost silent laugh to herself. Out loud, she said, "I guess he changed." She gestured to the cafetière beside her and asked, "Do you think that's ready?"

John approached the kitchen counter and pushed down the plunger. Rose removed the tea bag from her tea as John poured the coffee into his mug. She asked him if he'd like any sugar, to which he declined.

Rose made her way back into the living room, leaving John to return the milk to the fridge. As Rose took her first sip of tea, John approached the chairs and hesitated beside his.

"I'm sorry, I don't understand what would have  _changed_  in Sherlock that led him to..." John gestured weakly toward Rose. "And why I didn't notice."

Rose shrugged as John took his seat opposite her. Did he need to understand? Rose thought. But she could see that pondering Sherlock's enigmatic sexual history was a welcome distraction for John Watson at this time.

"A case, maybe?" she volunteered. "Perhaps he saw a woman in the street and had... stirrings." Rose couldn't help but smile to herself at an imaginary Sherlock Holmes doing a double-take as some random sultry female sauntered by him, but John just took a sip of his coffee, his brow furrowed in thought.

"When was this?" he asked.

"When was what?"

"When he first... you know..."

Rose slowly sipped her tea. It was all a bit of a blur. She remembered the encounter; it was totally unforgettable: Sherlock Holmes and his huge presence, his strange, probing questions, and his indifference to her as a sexual being.

"I think it was..." she began, "...early spring. Yes, definitely. I was sitting in the little room off the parlour, trying to come up with an outline for my final essay..."

John tipped his head quizzically as Rose spoke.

"...Psychology," she added, smiling briefly. "My final year." He nodded, but offered no comment on her addendum. "And it was a slow night. Tuesdays often are." John squirmed uncomfortably. "And then Sherlock Holmes strolled in, asking Cynthia for an English girl who was moderately intelligent." Rose smiled at John, thinking that she should omit the part about Sherlock saying his name was 'John.'

"Strolled in?" John repeated, squinting a little. "Where was this?"

"The brothel I worked in," Rose replied, her smile fading. "In North London."

John blinked several times, his expression becoming animated.

"A  _brothel_?"

"Yes."

"Sherlock Holmes visited a  _brothel_?"

"What's your point exactly?"

John just slowly shook his head. "I just thought... he'd ring up for a... a... you know. Somebody more... high-brow. A call girl, or high-class escort or... something. Someone who'd visit  _him._ "

A cold hand gripped Rose's heart, as ripples of shame radiated outwards. Dirty, worthless, degraded. A whore. Her mouth ran dry and she felt her skin prickling. She didn't know why she had suddenly reacted like this. It was the same feeling she'd had after encountering Chantal, her ex co-worker from the brothel, as she walked by a bus stop and had been reminded in very graphic terms what it was like to be a prostitute. And not just any prostitute. On the hierarchy of sex workers, a worker in a brothel didn't rate as highly as an expensive call girl.

John seemed oblivious to her inner turmoil. He smiled sheepishly.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to..."

Rose couldn't look at him. She stared into the lifeless fireplace and tried to force herself to speak.

"It's... okay," she said, her voice tight and strained. "I don't know why Sherlock chose a brothel either." She could feel John studying her in the silence that stretched before them. "Perhaps it was because you were here," she added, finally dragging her gaze back to him.

He nodded thoughtfully.

"But I did end up coming here eventually," she said.

John's eyebrows shot up. "You did?"

"Don't you remember, the first time we met?"

John just stared at her, his eyes narrowing in thought. Slowly he turned his gaze toward the sofa and studied it for a few seconds.

"But..." he said, after a fashion. He looked back at her. "We sat over there, and I told you all about Sherlock's cases."

Despite Rose's previous ill-feelings toward her past occupation, a smile just begged to stretch across her lips.

"And now the penny drops," she said.

John's jaw dropped open.

"Were you... did you..." He stared at the sofa again, as if he'd find the answers there. She could see by his darting eyes that he was attempting to reassemble all his memories of the time they had first been introduced.

She couldn't help it. Rose burst out laughing, her own recall of the awkwardness of the afternoon bubbling to the surface. John initially regarded her as if she were mad, but she could see his face softening and the corners of his mouth curving upwards. Eventually, her raucous laughter faded to a chuckle. When she could manage to speak again, she said, "I had no idea why you were here. Apparently you'd come home unexpectedly from work, and then you said you'd sit at the back and take notes."

She started laughing once more, John's stunned expression setting her off again.

"Wait... what?" he said. "But..."

Rose eventually composed herself. John's face told her he in was in the middle of another discovery.

"But..." he continued to stammer. He narrowed his eyes at her. And then he pointed. "You asked for  _me_... If you had no idea I'd be here, then why did you say you had an appointment with  _John_?"

Rose just sat back and stared at the man, a fixed grin on her face, willing him to make the connection. When his mouth formed a small 'o', she knew he'd got there.

"The  _bastard!_ " he said, shooting out of his chair. "The fucking  _bastard!_ "

* * *

"I wasn't always a prostitute. I didn't just wake up one day and decide that fucking men for money would be my ideal career."

Rose held her tea cup to her temple. The inside sloshed a little with scotch whiskey. She didn't notice; her eyes were heavy with sleep.

"So why did you do it?" John asked, picking at a thread on his shirt.

"I think I'd reached the lowest point in my life. It's stupid really. I can't believe I made that decision and thought it wouldn't affect me in the future. I needed the money. There you go. It's that simple and that stupid."

The conversation had moved on to Rose's career aspirations, her aborted attempt at a traineeship in Cardiff, and her random mix of jobs over the years. John had recounted Sherlock's cases again. Rose knew the facts of each case from the notes she took years ago, but this time John recalled them from the perspective of Sherlock-the-human, rather than Sherlock-the-calculating-machine. John had shocked Rose with the confession that he had shot and killed the taxi driver who had been responsible for the serial suicides a few years back. Rose surprised herself that she was able to get John to open up and talk about how he felt about that.

After a period of silence where they both quietly sipped at their whiskeys, John stated, "Early spring, you said." He was staring absently into the air, his head having lolled onto the back of his chair.

"What?"

"When Sherlock visited you in the brothel."

"Oh. Yes. Quite early. Definitely March."

"I can see it now," John mused.

"See what?"

"When the change happened."

Rose struggled to sit up straighter through the dizziness brought about by her alcohol consumption.

"What happened?"

Rose watched John's chest rise and fall in a steady rhythm. Had he fallen asleep with his eyes open? She had dated a guy who did that once. But eventually John lifted his whiskey glass to his lips and paused long enough to say, "She really did a number on him."

Rose wasn't sure she'd heard him correctly.  _She?_

"What? Who?"

"The Woman," he said through narrow eyes.

"What woman?"

" _The_  Woman."

Rose didn't understand the distinction, and her senses were too dulled to feel apprehensive about John's statement.

"Who? What did she do to him?"

John chuckled lightly. He rested his glass on his chest and he regarded Rose through beady eyes.

"She was a dominatrix."

Rose's head was buzzing now. She couldn't fully comprehend John's words.  _A dominatrix? Sherlock?_

Before she even knew what she was volunteering, she murmured, "But he hates being tied up."

John gaped, then snorted out a laugh. Rose cringed, realising her admission. When she had tied one of his wrists to the bed post on the night of John's wedding, she had thought Sherlock was upset because she had triggered unpleasant memories of being tortured somewhere in Eastern Europe. Had he been tormented by a dominatrix instead?

John struggled to curb his laughter. He wiped away tears and stopped chuckling long enough to say, "She didn't do anything to him, not in that way."

"Maybe that was his problem," Rose said, scowling.

"Yes. Maybe. She did flirt  _at_ him a lot, but he didn't seem affected at the time. His brother made some comment about Sherlock not knowing anything about sex at the start of the case. That may have contributed to it as well."

"Did he? What an arsehole."

"He has his moments."

"I don't like that man."

"Have you met him?"

Rose involuntarily shivered. "Yes," she replied.

"Did he kidnap you?"

"What? No."

Rose stared at John, trying to ascertain whether he was joking or not.

"Did he offer you money to spy on Sherlock?" he asked.

John had posed the question so casually that Rose knew he wasn't joking about this either. What kind of brother did Sherlock have? The poor man!

"Not exactly," she replied.

"Not exactly?" John asked, straightening up a little in his chair.

"He tried to bribe me with ten thousand pounds to stay away from Sherlock."

"Ten thousand pounds?" John sank back into his seat. "Why didn't I get that deal," he muttered. "But in conclusion, I deduce that it was this case that drove him to it."

"Because she was a dominatrix?"

"Because she beat him. And I think he let some part of her get to him. I think he was confused by her womanly wiles. And then shortly after the case, all of a sudden he decides he wants to have sex like a regular person. Well, not really a regular person. We don't all go to brothels."

The creases in Rose's brow deepened. Did Sherlock go to a brothel in search of a dominatrix? She recalled that he didn't seem to know what he wanted. Vanilla sex was what he got in the end, and he didn't waver from that for ages.

Rose placed her drink down onto a side table and crossed her arms in front of her.

"Well, I don't think you're qualified to make that assessment,  _Doctor_ Watson."

"No, no, I guess not," John replied, laughing a little. "You're the psychologist after all."

"And I don't think we should talk about Sherlock's sex life any more. It's private."

"You started it," John said, gulping down the last of his whiskey.

"No.  _You_  started it."

"I did, didn't I? Sorry about that."

John chuckled again, then attempted to stifle a yawn. He slowly rose to his feet, stretched and then checked his watch.

"Christ, I have to go to work in a few hours."

Rose stood up beside him and swayed lightly.

"So do I."

John stopped and scrutinised her.

"You're very drunk. You should've stopped at tea."

"I'll be fine," she replied, touching a hand to her forehead.

John reached down to pick up his glass. His fingers slipped, and the glass tumbled to the rug. Luckily, it didn't break.

"Look at the pot calling the kettle black," Rose said. "I'd hate to be one of your patients tomorrow." She chuckled lightly as she took her own cup to the kitchen.

John followed her in, saying, "And I'd hate to... to receive an invoice from you tomorrow."

Rose laughed a little along with John. She washed both their cups as John returned the bottle of whiskey to the top shelf.

As she was drying her hands on a tea towel, John said, "You're not thinking of travelling all the way back to Bayswater at this hour?"

Rose was originally going to return home after her long soak in the tub, but her plans for the night had gone a bit askew.

"Oh, no, I guess I'll just sleep here for a bit and leave before sunrise," she said, gesturing toward the back of the flat. "Unless... you're not in Sherlock's room are you?"

"Christ, no," John replied. "That would be... weird. No. I'm back upstairs."

He smiled wanly, the unspoken reason for his being here hanging awkwardly in the air.

"Okay, then," Rose said, smiling reassuringly. "Well, goodnight."

"'Night," John bid her and she turned to leave. "Oh. Rose."

Rose turned back to face him. She didn't think she'd ever heard John say her name before. It didn't sound odd; it sounded... nice.

John had shoved his hands into his trouser pockets and he rocked on the balls of his feet. He cleared his throat and said, "I'm sorry for the way I treated you before." His voice had grown husky as he spoke in a low tone. "I may have been projecting my anger onto you, when it was really about Sherlock not trusting me with something else."

Rose felt warmed by John's sentiment, but she couldn't leave him thinking it was all Sherlock's doing.

"Thank you, John," she said. "But it wasn't Sherlock's fault. It was all me, actually. I didn't want anybody to know about us. He really wanted to tell you, but I put my foot down."

John nodded and attempted to smile at Rose, but it didn't quite meet his eyes.

"People and their dark and sinister secrets," he said.

He locked his eyes with hers and Rose knew he was no longer talking about her and Sherlock. She took a step forward and laced her fingers together in front of her.

"I'm really ashamed and embarrassed about my past, John." His shoulders seemed to droop, possibly with his own burdens, but perhaps he was as tired and mentally exhausted as she felt and he didn't want to hear this right now. "I received counselling for it," she continued anyway, "and Sherlock's been really supportive." She felt a build-up of pressure behind her eyes, and she dropped her gaze for a moment. "I don't know what I'd do without his love, really." Her voice crackled a little but she braved a glance at John. His eyes had widened minutely. She was probably speaking words that had never been associated with Sherlock Holmes before. She offered John a tiny smile before continuing.

"But if we keep dwelling on the past, we'd never have a future together. Sherlock doesn't have a problem with it, but I do. He has hopes for our future..." She drifted off, recalling Sherlock's enthusiastic suggestion that she move into Baker Street with him. Her heart felt heavy, and all she wanted to do at that moment was curl up with Sherlock in his bed. "Anyway," she said, attempting to rouse herself from her morose thoughts as John continued to silently study her, "I'm working on it." She sighed, and felt overwhelmingly lost. "So... we'd better get some sleep. Thank you, John."

This time he gave her a proper smile. He nodded at her and said, "Good night, Rose."

"'Night, John."

* * *

Rose was disappointed to find Sherlock fast asleep when she slipped into his room. She quietly stowed his laptop into the low cabinets by the door. She removed her shoes and stood by the bed, looking down at him. He was lying on his side as far over to the edge of the bed as he could manage without falling off. He had made room for her. Rose felt a pang of guilt. Did he actually know what nights she would show up, or did he sleep that way every night in anticipation?

Rose yawned widely. She was exhausted after her lack of sleep and drinking session with John Watson the night before, then having to spend an entire day—luckily a late shift—at the home entertainment store, finishing off with a few hours counselling at the ASXX. She had hoped Sherlock would be well enough to leave hospital any day now. It was already halfway through the week in which he'd said he would be discharged.

She drew the sheet down a little and climbed in beside Sherlock. She was relieved that he stirred a little.

"Hello," she whispered, leaning over him to plant a kiss onto his temple.

"Mm."

"I'm here."

"Obviously."

Rose settled down beside him. He felt warm, his pyjamas soft against her bare arms, and he was still unshaven.

"I saw John last night," she said, running her fingers over his jaw.

"I know."

"How do you know?"

Sherlock sighed and his warm breath fluttered across her cheek.

"He was here this morning."

"Oh," Rose replied, emitting a light chuckle. Of course John had visited him. "How was he?"

"He was very chatty," Sherlock added, his eyes still shut. "And hungover."

Rose laughed lightly and wondered if Sherlock had deduced that about John, or if John had told him.

"I brought your laptop," she said.

When Sherlock didn't react at all, she called his name again. Rose could see Sherlock's brow furrow in the half-light of the reading lamp.

"Just let me sleep," he said eventually, his voice making him sound exhausted.

Rose felt a little disappointed, although she knew she would fall asleep in an instant herself. She closed her eyes, pressed a soft kiss to the underside of Sherlock's jaw, then nestled into his warm embrace.

Her alarm sounded the two hour mark far too quickly as far as Rose was concerned. She had to pry her eyes open. Sherlock hadn't moved an inch. His arms were still banded around her, and she felt as if she had fallen asleep in a furnace.

"Sherlock," she said, disentangling herself. She climbed out of bed and went to pull the sheet back over him when she saw him shiver. She reached out and touched his arm. His skin was on fire. "Sherlock," she said again. He hummed non-committedly in response. "You're burning up."

Sherlock didn't respond except to pull the sheet up higher.

"How are you feeling?"

He didn't answer. Pointless question anyway, she thought.

She arranged the heavier blanket over him, her insides twisting when she saw him shudder again. Rose hastened to straighten out her clothes and put her shoes on.

Leaning over him, she whispered, "I'm going to press the call button, okay, and get you a nurse."

She pulled her jacket on, then opened the door, cautiously peering out to check if she had a clear exit. She came back to Sherlock's bedside and kissed his temple again. His skin immediately heated her lips.

"I love you," she whispered, then she pressed the call button and high-tailed it out of there.

* * *

Rose immediately felt bad for yelling at Billy. It wasn't his fault that both porters no longer appeared to work at the hospital. Rose had come to the conclusion that Sherlock's older brother had manipulated the shifts of the workers to only give her sporadic access. She suspected that Sherlock had succumbed to an infection and was very sick, prompting the overbearing sibling to cut off her visiting rights altogether. Did one man really have the power to do that?

"What about the cleaner?" she asked Billy. "The woman who helped us the first time?"

"I dunno, Rosie. I'll 'ave-ta check."

Rose quickly thanked Billy, and apologised again for yelling at him. She ended the call then left the guest bedroom to join the rest of the party in the communal area at the back of her parents' house. It had been one long, torturous week, living with her parents while they packed up their belongings for Scotland. As of tomorrow evening, she'd have the place to herself. Their house was on the market, and Rose hoped it wouldn't sell for a while. She really didn't have any plans for accommodation once that happened.

She didn't feel sad about leaving Leinster Gardens. The bad memories there started to outweigh the good memories anyway. She didn't think she'd even miss Tonya Small. Rose's relationship with The Clarence House Cannibal had become a bit strained; Tonya's disappointment that Rose didn't stay broken up with Sherlock Holmes was evident in the thinning of her lips and her pointed silence whenever Rose mentioned him or his condition.

Rose used the last of her reserves to socialise with her parents' friends and neighbours for the rest of the evening. She woke early, helped her mother clean up the last of the party mess, and finally farewelled her parents when their taxi arrived after lunch. She made promises to visit them at Christmas time, then collapsed in an exhausted heap on the sofa downstairs.

It was two days before Billy got back to her with a way in. He'd found a new cleaner, but the man could only let Rose onto the ward after 2am. Rose conceded that she'd take what she could get.

That night, she crept into Baker Street just after eleven. Sherlock's flat was closer to the hospital and she didn't want to make the journey so late at night from her parents' house. She didn't encounter John Watson, nor was there any sign that he'd been there. She slept in Sherlock's bed until one thirty, then grabbed a cab. She was surprised at how awake she felt. Her skin prickled with anticipation at seeing Sherlock after almost a week away.

The ward was as still and quiet as it usually was, 2am being the time she would normally have left. When she slipped into Sherlock's room, she half-hoped he'd be standing by the window, a stern look on his face, and offering a dry quip about why she'd taken so long to visit him again.

But the room was horribly sterile and unwelcoming. Sherlock was fast asleep, lying flat on his back—no room for her—one arm across his chest, and the other by his side. But that wasn't what caused her heart to leap into her throat. Sherlock had what Rose assumed was a morphine drip attached once more to his left arm. There were tubes extending out of his neck, a blood pressure cuff encircling his right arm and a clamp attached to one finger and connected to a heart-rate monitor. And he was wearing a hospital gown.

 _Oh, Sherlock,_ she thought, a heavy weight descending on her.  _What's happened to you?_


	66. I've Been Thinking About You

Rose quickly hung up the phone. Of course it was Mary Watson. Who else would answer with "This is Mary."

Rose's plan to phone John Watson to find out about Sherlock's condition had failed for the second time. The first was when she made yet another visit to Baker Street. The doctor wasn't in. She thought she'd ring his surgery from the landline in her office, but lost her nerve when Mary answered the phone.

Her last visit to see Sherlock hadn't ended very well. Clearly she had been dropped from the authorised visitor list and had migrated to the Naughty List. Just as she was approaching Sherlock's bed, a female voice behind her said, "Ms Sulford. You aren't permitted to be in here."

"Just give me a minute," she'd said, in a voice strained with emotion. Her stomach dropped at hearing the intrusive request, but otherwise, she tried to remain outwardly calm at the woman's words.

She curled her fingers around Sherlock's, but the security officer had come up right behind her. She spoke to Rose in a low voice.

"If you wish to remain anonymous and not make a scene, then you will leave with me now. If you don't then I will not hesitate to call hospital security and your identity will be revealed."

"Why can't you give me a minute?" Rose asked, without turning around.

"You don't have security clearance."

Rose reached out and drew aside a strand of hair from Sherlock's forehead.

"Ms Sulford."

"Sherlock," she whispered, willing him to wake up.

" _Ms Sulford._ "

"Okay. All right."

Rose bent down and pressed her lips to Sherlock's forehead. She whispered, "I'll be back soon."

His only reaction was a tiny furrowing of his brow. Rose wanted to stay and wait for him to wake. Surely he'd send this woman packing.

"Ms Sulford."

Rose had rapidly become tired of hearing her own name. Finally, she heaved out a sigh before turning to follow the well-groomed, presumably MI5, agent out of the room. Suddenly she stopped short.

"If you know who I am," she said as the agent paused in the doorway, "then you'll know how important I am to Sherlock."

The agent raised an eyebrow, signalling that she, herself, did not care. She stood to one side, and gestured through the doorway.

"I'm sure Mycroft Holmes cares," Rose muttered as she preceded the agent into the corridor. "When will I be allowed to visit again?"

"That won't be possible."

Rose halted once more.

The agent turned to her and said, "Ms Sulford, please don't make a scene. You will be the only one who regrets it if you do."

With a heavy heart, Rose allowed herself to be escorted from the hospital. She knew the agent had a point. It was only Rose who worried that anybody might identify her and connect her to the famous Sherlock Holmes. She was desperate to see him, but would she be willing to risk her own privacy?

As she left, she wondered if she would ever be permitted to see Sherlock again.

* * *

"I'm sorry, Rosie," Billy said over the phone the next morning. "I am workin' on it."

Rose bid her friend a goodbye and ended the call. She stared at her unappealing chicken salad and threw herself back into her work for the rest of the day.

A week later, having heard nothing positive from Billy, she stood on the step outside 221 Baker Street once more, slightly sodden from the sudden downpour. But this time, she had an alternate plan.

Rose had kept herself busy, concentrating fully on work, taking extra shifts, giving Gus afternoons off. It was astounding how little the man actually did around the office and how little she noticed when he wasn't there. With no rent to pay now that she was looking after her parents' house, Rose's savings were growing steadily.

But each evening, with the exception of the nights she offered counselling, Rose worried about Sherlock and his health, and how she would be able to gain access to see him. Surely he'd been in hospital long enough?

It was only early evening and Rose had taken her usual precautions in navigating to Baker Street and ensuring her identity was adequately covered. She pitied anyone who ever had to maintain an undercover surveillance in these conditions. But this time, Rose didn't use her key. She reached out and pressed the doorbell for 221A.

She was relieved to find that there was a flicker of recognition on the face of Sherlock's landlady.

"Mrs Hudson, hello," Rose said.

"Oh, hello, love. I'm afraid he's not in. I'm sorry to say, but I have bad news."

"Oh, I know what's happened and where he is," Rose replied, smiling reassuringly. "'I actually wanted to ask you how he was doing. I'm not permitted to visit him."

Mrs Hudson scowled and ushered Rose inside and out of the weather.

"Yes, I know all about those security measures," she said once she'd closed the door behind her visitor. "I still have to show ID every time I visit. You think they'd know who I was by now."

"So, how's Sherlock?" Rose asked, failing miserably at keeping her patience.

"Why don't you come and have a nice cup of tea. Warm you up a bit," the landlady said, gesturing toward the back of her flat.

Rose reluctantly removed her coat and followed Mrs Hudson into her kitchen. She'd been there late last year when she was avoiding John Watson and had confessed to the older woman that she was Sherlock's counsellor.

"I expect he'd need someone to talk to after this experience," Mrs Hudson said to her in a low voice. She continued bustling about the kitchen as she spoke. "He's always getting himself into mischief." The landlady chuckled to herself. "I remember one time…"

Rose politely listened to Mrs Hudson's stories about Sherlock and John's adventures together as she sipped her tea. Rose had heard about most of their cases, but it was interesting hearing the landlady tell them from her sometimes limited and colourful perspective.

"And how is he coping with being cooped up on a hospital ward?" Rose finally asked, when she was able to get a word in again.

"Oh, the silly lump. Not very well, I'm afraid. He keeps trying to escape."

"Escape?"

"Yes." Mrs Hudson's hand went to her chest. "The first time he actually managed to leave the hospital and he hid somewhere in central London. Nobody could find him for hours. I have no idea where he ended up. They were all out checking his usual bolt holes, even that nice detective from Scotland Yard. _Behind the clock face of Big Ben,_ I suggested, but I don't think John believed me. How he could climb all those steps in his condition… Well, finally he came here with John and Mary and collapsed. They should've taken him straight to hospital when they found him, instead of coming here to have their little domestic. _So thoughtless_. He was very lucky the ambulance arrived so quickly." Mrs Hudson leant forward and whispered conspiratorially. "He went into cardiac arrest. Nearly died, again! He's got nine lives that man. Well…" She paused to chuckle. "Not anymore. But who's keeping count?"

"And how is he now?" Rose asked.

"Oh, he was fine in hospital for a while, but then he came down with a nasty infection."

Rose already knew about this, but that was nearly two weeks ago. Surely they had it under control by now?

"And when do they expect he'll be out?" she asked the landlady.

"Not for a while, love. Not if he keeps trying to escape."

"He's not a prisoner, is he?"

Rose wondered if Sherlock had actually managed to leave the hospital grounds again and if the Security Services were keeping him in as much as keeping others out. If he had left, then this time he hadn't involved either her or Billy.

"They found him wandering the corridors a couple of times, getting himself lost. Said he was trying to go outside for a smoke. Not that he had any cigarettes on him. Another time they caught him attempting to use a computer in the nurses' station."

Rose gave Mrs Hudson a grim smile.

"So, he's up and about," she asked, "and walking around now? Have you seen him?"

"No, love. He keeps relapsing because of his silly jaunts out of bed. Mr Holmes won't allow any visitors in at the moment. Germs, you know."

Rose's shoulders drooped a little in defeat. Yes, she knew all about _Mr Holmes_ and his visitor restrictions. She quickly drained the rest of her tea and asked Mrs Hudson if she could let her know when Sherlock was able to receive visitors again. She gave the landlady her mobile number and thanked her for the tea before leaving.

* * *

Sherlock eyed his brother's stiff back as the man turned to regard the row of newly delivered flowers that were arranged on the low cabinets by the door. Sherlock resisted the urge to throw something at him.

"I want to see her," he said. Surely if he said it enough times, Mycroft would acquiesce. Constant badgering used to work when he was seven, and he didn't see why he couldn't employ the same technique now.

"And you know why I won't allow it," Mycroft said calmly as he scanned each bouquet for the accompanying get well soon cards.

"That's a load of rubbish, and you know it. I should be allowed any visitors I want at the time I want them."

Mycroft turned and fixed Sherlock with a thin-lipped smile.

"Not past your bedtime." Sherlock rolled his eyes to the ceiling, but Mycroft continued anyway. "Such nocturnal antics are probably what caused your infection in the first place."

"There were no _antics,_ " Sherlock said, his insides roiling at the thought of Mycroft speculating on what he and Rose got up to. "We sleep together…" Sherlock cleared his throat and attempted to make it sound as innocent as Rose's visits actually were— _except for that one time_. "She… falls asleep. We chat and we sleep. She isn't here any more than two hours and that's spent mostly sleeping."

Sherlock could tell by Mycroft's imperceptible narrowing of the eyes that he couldn't understand why Sherlock would want someone to sleep next to. The man had no idea what a great comfort it was to fall asleep with Rose Sulford curled up into him, breathing her scent, feeling her warm breath on his neck. Sherlock's heart rate would slow, dopamine would flood his central nervous system. What would the pompous arse know about any of that?

"Your sleep is broken," Mycroft said, moving toward the bed. "You're supposed to be recuperating, and an extended period of unbroken sleep is very important for your recovery."

"She's not even here every night thanks to you!"

"Sherlock."

" _I want to see her!_ "

Mycroft merely raised an eyebrow.

"Perhaps when we're allowing you to have visitors again, she can come during visiting hours, like everybody else." _Ah,_ thought Sherlock. _He's almost caving in._ _"_ I'll see to it that she is permitted to enter. Under supervision."

" _Under supervision_?" Sherlock repeated, aghast. "And you know why she can't come during the day."

"Then perhaps she isn't a suitable companion after all."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at his brother and said, "What would you know about suitable companions? You believe you exist in a world full of goldfish. How lonely is that?"

Sherlock knew he'd hit a raw nerve when Mycroft clenched his jaw. However his brother recomposed himself fairly quickly.

Mycroft said, "Well, it looks like you're in better spirits."

"I'm really not."

"I'll have Molly Hooper call in at her earliest convenience. I'm sure she'd be more than happy to share photographs of postmortems with you again. That should keep you amused for a while."

Sherlock huffed a sigh. His brother wasn't cooperating out of guilt as much as he did when they were younger. He needed Mycroft to be negligent again, just so he'd give Sherlock everything he wanted out of pity.

"At least bring me my computer," Sherlock said. "It's on my desk at home."

Mycroft gave Sherlock a tiny smile. "Your laptop is missing," he said casually. "Not that I would allow you to have it. I wouldn't want any enticing cases luring you prematurely out of your hospital bed."

Sherlock frowned. That didn't make sense.

"Then where is it?" he asked.

"Perhaps you left it at Ms Sulford's residence?"

Thoughts flitted through Sherlock's mind. His laptop was no longer at home. Somebody had taken it. Somewhere in the dim recesses of his Mind Palace were snippets of his and Rose's last conversation before he succumbed to an infection.

"Leave," Sherlock said, waving a dismissive hand. "You're boring me."

So, his laptop was here, he thought in smug satisfaction. And Mycroft knows nothing about it.

* * *

A few days after Rose had visited Baker Street, she received a text from Mrs Hudson.

 _You know who can have visitors,_ was the landlady's not-so-cryptic message.

That was all well and good, Rose thought, relieved that Sherlock was on the mend, but she and Billy still hadn't organised a way in. She sent a brief thanks to Mrs Hudson, and continued with her work.

It was on a beautifully crisp late summer's morning—too lovely to be hidden away in the back office of a home entertainment store—when Rose received an email from Sherlock Holmes. The very short message requested her to meet him for 'lunch' at 10am in an Italian restaurant just around the corner from the hospital. Rose's heart somersaulted in her chest. Could he be out already? But why would he ask her to meet him in such a public place, in broad daylight? Why didn't he just come around to hers in the evening?

Rose checked the time on her computer. It was a little after nine and Gus wasn't due in until eleven. She could duck out now and meet Sherlock and be back before that idiot even noticed anything. But… lunch? At 10am? She knew she had to trust that Sherlock knew what he was doing, and anyway, she really wanted to see him.

Rose knew she had to leave immediately if she wanted to get across the city in time. She set a call forward on her office phone to her mobile in case any urgent calls came in. Mornings were usually busy in terms of queries from corporate customers, and after all, she was still the responsible employee in accounts.

At two minutes past ten, Rose crossed the road for the restaurant Sherlock had specified in his message. The lights inside were dim, and it looked closed from the outside. Just then, her phone began to ring. Rose checked the caller ID and knew it was a delicate client in Slough. She accepted the call and spoke to the Office Manager as she paced along the footpath outside the restaurant. After a minute or so, while she listened patiently to the manager's tales of financial difficulty, a waiter from the restaurant opened the door and gestured for her to enter.

This Rose did while she still spoke on the phone to her client. As her eyes adjusted to the lighting in the restaurant, she spied a figure sitting at the back. The premises were deserted except for the tables set for the lunch clientele and the waiter who had resumed his duties behind the bar. Rose gave Sherlock a tiny wave as she attempted to wrap up her call.

A lead weight had materialised in the pit of her stomach at the sight of Sherlock. She only half-listened to her caller, but she gave Sherlock a reassuring smile. But what was he up to, she thought. Clearly he was meant to be in hospital. The man still had his morphine drip attached and he was wearing a hospital gown for Christ's sake! At least he was clean-shaven, she noted.

"Thank you," Rose said, exhaling impatiently. "I'll check your account and see if we can make any adjustments for you. I'll ring you back this afternoon."

She ended the call as she slowly approached Sherlock.

"Hello," he said, a broad smile gracing his features.

"My God."

"Not quite."

"Sherlock." His eyes were a little bit glassy, so Rose assumed he wasn't exactly firing on all four cylinders. "What are you doing here?"

Sherlock's expression became crestfallen at her less-than-enthusiastic greeting.

"I was going to have lunch with you."

"It's a bit early for lunch and I was at work."

Sherlock just stared at her, tiny creases appearing in his brow as if he didn't quite comprehend what she was saying or why she wasn't happy to see him. Rose immediately slipped into the chair at the intimate table set for two, to keep their conversation at a discreet level. She placed her phone down onto the table.

"You shouldn't be here," she said.

"What happened to my hello kiss?"

The corners of Sherlock's mouth were turned down at the edges causing Rose's expression to soften. She immediately slipped out of her chair and bent over the table. Sherlock tilted his head up and met her lips with his. It was merely a perfunctory kiss; Rose felt completely self-conscious, although she was sure the waiter was keeping himself occupied on purpose.

As she sat down once more, she asked, "Why are you here?"

"I was hungry," he replied languidly. "The food in the canteen is awful, and I wanted to see you."

Rose's heart twinged as Sherlock reached across the table for her hand.

"This is madness," she managed to say, but she curled her fingers around his anyway. "How did you get here?"

Rose had noted Sherlock's coat draped over the back of his chair. Sherlock removed his hand from hers and reached over to turn off his morphine drip.

"I emailed Billy as well," he replied. "He came dressed as a porter and wheeled me right past the nurses' station." A smile played on Sherlock's lips as he spoke. "It's a curious thing: the confidence of a thief, and how little attention people pay to a theft occurring right under their noses."

"Meaning the theft of Sherlock Holmes?"

Sherlock's smile answered Rose's question for him.

"Do you want to eat?" he asked, leaning forward. "I'm thinking of something from the specials board."

"No. It's a bit early for me," Rose said as Sherlock looked up and gave a nod to the waiter. "And I have to get back shortly. The phone won't stop ringing."

"Don't you have… that guy… thingummy… to help?"

"Gus?" Rose said, heaving out a sigh. "He's useless." As if on queue, her phone began to ring again. "Sorry, I have to get this. It'll be work."

Rose grabbed her phone from the table, and stood as she answered it. She moved away from Sherlock who was now talking to the waiter about the specials. She quickly navigated the conversation through the usual queries about corporate orders and managed to end the call just as the waiter had left the table.

"Look, I have to get back by eleven," she said, resuming her seat. "So I'll be leaving very shortly."

"Lunch will be served quite soon. The service is excellent. Are you sure you don't want to eat? I can call him back."

"No, Sherlock, it's fine."

Sherlock reached for Rose's hand again. Rose noted that the waiter had removed her table setting. She felt a bit silly. It was almost like a romantic candlelit dinner for two, without the candle. And the dinner.

And her romantic partner was wearing a hospital gown and was high on morphine.

"So, I was thinking," Sherlock said, running his thumb over the back of Rose's hand. "I really have to do something about Gus."

"What?"

"Gus, you know. He's causing you so much stress. It's not good for you."

Rose furrowed her brow at Sherlock and tried to see past his glazed eyes.

"Don't… don't worry about me. I'm fine."

"But you're unhappy at work. I've always noticed and I've never done anything about it.

"It's not up to you to do anything about Gus. He's just a work colleague… a dickhead loser. I can deal with him myself." She gave Sherlock's hand a light squeeze. "Look, Sherlock, I just want you to get better. Can you do that? Stay in hospital, rest up, get the medical attention you need."

"I can't do that," he replied, removing his hand from hers. "I've got work to do."

"I don't want you to do anything about Gus."

"Not Gus. That's just a little thing I can do for you on the side."

"Sherlock, don't do anything—"

"I'm still working on the Magnussen case."

Rose thought she was hearing things.

"What?"

Sherlock leant forward, resting his elbows on the table.

"Magnussen has something on Mary, too," he said in a voice pitched low. "I think if I can get him to—"

"Sherlock… what are you talking about?" Rose's chest had become tight, her breathing uneasy. "The case is over. You got shot. You didn't solve it. It's over."

"It's not over. What makes you think it's over?"

Rose mind started to buzz. She couldn't believe what she was hearing. She'd thought all they had to do now was get past Sherlock's stint in hospital and then everything would be back to normal. _Their_ version of normal. Was the nightmare really not over? She stared dumbfounded at Sherlock as he leant forward to speak.

"I'm going to get Magnussen to invite me to Appledore," he said slowly. "If I see his vaults, I'll know exactly how they can be penetrated. Not just for the information he has on Mary or Lord Smallwood's letters, but anything he has on you, Rose. You and John Garvie. I can get all of it. _Destroy_ all of it."

Clearly it wasn't over, Rose thought. It would never be over, and now Sherlock was going to poke the hornet's nest once more. Rose's eyes stung and she rapidly blinked before sitting back in her chair. She folded her arms in front of her and wiped at one eye.

Sherlock was waiting for a response from her.

Finally she sniffed and said, "Sherlock…" She slowly shook her head. She didn't know what to say to him. Evidently anything she had ever said to him regarding her concerns about Magnussen turning his attention to Sherlock and one day finding out about her connection to the famous Consulting Detective had fallen on deaf ears. Sherlock had taken none of her worries into account. He was going full steam ahead into provoking the media giant. "Please… don't…" she said, an unbearable pressure building up behind her eyes. She could barely get the words out, for fear of sobbing in front of him. "For… us…"

There was a flicker of something in Sherlock's eyes. Sympathy? Concern?

"I'm doing this for us," he said.

Rose leant across the table again and reached for Sherlock's hand.

"Then let's wait," she said, fixing her imploring eyes on his. "Wait until you're out of hospital, when you're thinking more clearly."

"I've never been more clear in my life."

" _You're high!"_

She hadn't meant to snap. Rose pulled her hand away from Sherlock's again. His jaw had hardened, but he couldn't quite manage the penetrating glare that usually crossed his features when he was about to contradict somebody.

"That," he said, gesturing vaguely in the direction of his morphine drip, "is a prop. I don't need it. I want Magnussen to think I'm a morphine addict and therefore no real threat."

"Oh, this again," Rose said, her mounting anger eclipsing her earlier fear. "And what will you do next? Date his gardener? Marry the cleaner?"

"Rose…"

"You've _never_ paid any attention to what I want…"

" _Never?_ "

"You've demanded I come here, in broad daylight, on a whim because you can't stand hospital food, and you don't care whether anybody sees us together or not. Do you have any idea what lengths I've had to go to just to visit you in hospital, unseen…" Rose paused to catch a breath and compose herself. "I'm working full-time, I'm supposed to be looking for new accommodation, and prepare myself for uni next month, and I'm…"

"Why are you looking for accommodation?"

"Don't change the subject!"

Sherlock blinked as if he'd been slapped, but Rose was no longer concerned about his welfare. Her heart beat erratically in her chest and her eyes were rapidly watering.

"You blatantly disregard my concerns for my future… my career prospects… my reputation…"

"What reputation?"

Rose froze and regarded Sherlock through narrow eyes. _What reputation?_ Was he that uncaring or just obtuse.

"Are you _joking_? My unsullied, clean repu—"

"Look, Rose," Sherlock said, leaning forward and speaking as if Rose's entire rant hadn't happened. "I do care about you. Look," he said, sweeping an arm in a wide arc about the restaurant. "It's not open for lunch until eleven. I thought this would be nice. I hardly ever get out," he added, shrugging, as if he just hadn't found the time to take in the sights or go to nice restaurants because of a busy schedule.

So he thought he could charm and distract her by reminding Rose about his cute invitation to share a meal with him. She wasn't impressed, nor easily distracted.

"Sherlock," Rose said, her skin beginning to prickle in anticipation of the words she was about to say. "Listen to me carefully." Sherlock's eyes had widened as if he had just realised the depth of her emotions. "I don't want you to take this case any further." Rose studied his eyes for any indication that he was absorbing her words. When he didn't respond, she added, "I want you to know, that you can choose the case, or you can choose me. You can't have both."

Sherlock's eyes widened a little, before they appeared to flicker to life.

"That's just ridiculous," he said. "I'm choosing the case _because_ of you. Don't you see?"

In her heart, Rose knew he hadn't had time to understand the full weight of her demand.

"No," she said simply, with a light shake of her head. "You can't have both," she said again.

Sherlock's expression twisted into one of derision.

"No, _you_ don't understand. I've thought about this a lot and I've come up with a brilliant plan."

"Sherlock…"

He gestured toward the door and said, a note of triumph in his voice, "Any minute now Charles Augustus Magnussen is going to come through that door…"

"What?"

"And I'm going to insist— _insist, Rose—_ that he invite me to Appledore—"

Rose stood up and pushed back on her seat so abruptly that the chair tipped backwards and fell with a resounding clatter to the ground.

"Sherlock," Rose choked out.

At Sherlock's bewildered expression, Rose grabbed her phone from the table and reached down to retrieve her bag from the floor.

At that moment a waiter had materialised from the kitchen holding Sherlock's plate of penne.

"Ah…" the young man stammered at the scene before him.

"Is there a back door?" Rose asked him.

"Rose," Sherlock said.

Without waiting for an answer from the waiter, Rose brushed past the confused man and stormed into the kitchen. She didn't stop until she'd found a door to the alleyway behind the restaurant through which she escaped into the warm London sunshine.


	67. What Life? I've Been Away

Rose let her tears flow freely as Billy hugged her back. She would miss her friend terribly. The ache in her heart grew as she clung to his neck.

Billy gently patted her back and said, "Promise you won't be angry."

Rose eased out of their embrace. They weren't the words of farewell she was expecting. She wiped her eyes and sniffed.

"What?"

"Look, Rosie, I know you said you didn't want me to tell 'im you're leavin', but Shezza's upstairs if you wanna say goodbye."

Rose's stomach dropped several inches. He was here in east London? Right now, just when she happened to have called round to see Billy?

Rose had determinedly put Sherlock Holmes out of her mind—although impossibly not out of her heart—months ago. She was coming to terms with the fact that she'd never see him again, but now on this day, her last day in London, she had the opportunity one final time.

"Billy," she said, exasperatedly.

"'e doesn't know you're 'ere neither. I got 'im 'ere under false pretences."

" _You_ asked him here?"

"'e's just upstairs."

At first, Rose was stunned by Billy's craftiness. That was so unlike him. But then again, in the last couple of months, she had the distinct impression that Bill Wiggins was firmly on team Sherlock. Was he learning how to manipulate people, too?

She looked toward the stairwell and her mind traversed all of the painful memories she'd had of visiting Sherlock in the drug den when he was going through whatever he was doing for his case. Before he'd been shot.

"Is he… high?"

"Ah…" Billy began. Then he shrugged lightly. "Nope."

Rose planted her hands on her hips and glared at Billy.

"Is he, or isn't he?"

"'e may've 'ad summin' yesterday, but we've been busy workin' today. 'e's jus' 'avin' a nap."

Rose's insides churned at the prospect at what she may find upstairs. There were no sounds of construction emanating from above, so evidently he wasn't in any kind of manic state.

"I don't want to see him if he's..."

"e's not, Rosie. I promise."

"What's he on these days?"

Billy feigned another shrug. "Ah… y'know."

"No, I don't know."

"Jus'…"

"Don't bother explaining. It's none of my concern anymore." But her face softened as she regarded her friend who looked like he was about to be chastised. "Billy," she said, reaching for his hand. "I came here to say goodbye to you. Let's not spoil it."

"C'mon, Rosie. Jus' a minute upstairs. Say goodbye to the bloke. You'll break 'is heart otherwise."

Rose let Billy's hand go and frowned up at him. "I broke up with him months ago… how can I…"

Billy shuffled his feet and rubbed at the back of his neck. Rose knew those gestures.

"Billy."

"Well… 'e doesn't really think you broke up with 'im."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, it's like this, innit? 'e's been working on this case for you…"

"Don't give me that. How can he not know? He was in the restaurant when I walked out on him. He wasn't that out of it."

"'e jus' thought you were angry."

Rose folded her arms in front of her and said, "I _was_ angry."

"But you're always doin' that—walkin' out on 'im."

"I gave him an ultimatum."

"I told 'im you'd come round to 'is way of thinking."

Rose couldn't believe the gall of Billy to speak on her behalf and she started to chastise him. But if Sherlock thought Rose was merely angry with him, why didn't he insist on seeing her like he did once before?

When she posed this question to Billy, he replied, "Coz 'e thinks 'e 'as t'solve the case first."

"But it's been _months_."

"'e 'asn't done a lot. 'e's been in and outta rehab since then. I told y' at the time."

Billy _had_ been keeping Rose posted on all things related to Sherlock—evading his brother, escaping from a rehabilitation facility, ending up back in hospital—and Rose had, rather bluntly, told her friend on several occasions that she wasn't interested in knowing the finer details of Sherlock Holmes's exploits. Billy gave her the excuse that she did keep asking him whether he himself was busy or not and he had truthfully told her all the tasks he had been helping Shezza with, which included, but was not limited to, solving minor cases and helping Sherlock escape to freedom.

" _I'm 'is protégé_ ," he had told Rose on more than one occasion.

"Look, I'm sorry, Billy. But I'm not going up. I came around to say goodbye to you since you couldn't come to my farewell dinner."

Rose stepped forward and pulled a reluctant Billy into a hug once more.

"Goodbye, Billy. Take care of yourself."

"Aw, c'mon, Rosie. 'e'll be 'artbroken and I'll be left t' pick up the pieces."

"No, I'm sorry," she said, withdrawing.

Rose started making tracks for the entrance, her heels echoing throughout the ground floor with every step.

"An' 'e's been working on a surprise for ya," Billy said from behind her. He hadn't moved from his spot in front of the opening to the kitchen.

Rose's shoulders slumped in disappointment, but she stopped and turned to face him.

"What surprise?" she asked, not knowing for sure if she really wanted to know, or if she could never dismiss Billy so easily.

"I can't tell ya."

"Well, I can't help what he's been doing and thinking. I really can't."

She turned for the front door again.

"It's a birthday present," Billy gushed, coming forward. Rose's heart sank. A birthday present! "So it's not really ready yet," Billy continued, "but you won't be 'ere, so it doesn't matter if you see it early. Please, Rosie. Jus' go up. If you care for 'im at all."

Rose slowly shook her head. She'd never known Billy to use emotional blackmail to get what he wanted out of anybody. In fact, the man rarely asked anybody to do anything they didn't want to do. Sherlock had definitely been influencing him. Protégé, indeed.

Rose ran her gaze along the passageway toward the stairwell. He'd remembered her birthday. An enormous pressure built up behind Rose's eyes when she recalled watching the fireworks from the top of Big Ben to herald in the New Year—her birthday treat from Sherlock. Could she face him after all this time? It had been months.

She'd left the Italian restaurant that morning both fearful and heartbroken. Sherlock had clearly disregarded her wishes, opting to stick doggedly to his plans and meet with Magnussen. Her continual assertion—that being seen in public with the famous Sherlock Holmes may provoke some interested paparazzo into wondering who the Consulting Detective's new female companion was—had always been ignored or dismissed by Sherlock. The things they used to speculate in the press about Sherlock and John Watson's relationship status was both pathetic and outrageous. Rose hated the thought of anybody prying into her private life.

And what would become of her goal of one day entering the forensic psychology field if potential employers and clients knew of her past working as a prostitute? What would they think of her integrity? Would she be respected among her peers or would she become a laughing stock—a fantasy figure for the criminal element who she may one day be trying to rehabilitate? Would they be listening to her advice, or would they be imagining her naked in all kinds of positions?

Sherlock purposefully provoking Magnussen would have prompted the newspaper proprietor into prying into Sherlock's life for pressure points. If she had stayed with Sherlock, how long would it have taken for Magnussen's spies to see her with him? She would immediately be identified as the woman who had an 'affair' with John Garvie. Even if that was the only dirt CAM Global News had on her, her face plastered all over the papers may lead to other people coming forward saying they knew her when she worked in a brothel and a strip club. A forensic psychologist who was a former prostitute and stripper and dating the famous Consulting Detective? That would make a great morning's entertaining read on page three.

Why could Sherlock never see what a huge issue this was for her?

But it didn't matter anymore. After the events of the past couple of months, Rose was determined to put as much distance between herself and Sherlock Holmes as possible. And that meant leaving London.

She hated being around her mother during the festive season. The woman didn't handle stress very well and became quite tyrannical throughout the period. Rose didn't mind that she was leaving London for Scotland to live with her cousin, four doors down from her own mother, but she did choose to leave on Christmas Eve, thus avoiding the stress of the lead up to the family's festivities.

"Rosie," Billy prompted her.

Rose blinked back tears and had made up her mind. She could do this. She could end their relationship one more time if Sherlock hadn't received the message loud and clear on that last occasion. She had practically run out of the restaurant at the thought of Magnussen appearing in the doorway at any moment. Perhaps she did owe it to her ex-boyfriend to ensure he really knew he was an ex.

"Okay," she said quietly.

Squaring her shoulders and lifting her head, she strode purposefully toward the stairs where Billy was waiting for her.

"Is he in the hall or your room?" she asked, pausing on the second step.

"Ah… neither," Billy replied, looking up at Rose from the bottom step and smiling sheepishly. "'e's in the room two doors along from mine."

Rose gazed upwards.

"What room?"

There were no habitable rooms two doors up from Billy's. At least there never used to be. Those old tutorial rooms were little more than spaces that housed rotting floorboards that could give way if you trod on them. Not many of them even had doors, and the ones that did, the doors could barely swing on their hinges nor latch shut.

"That's the surprise," Billy said. "'e's been renovatin' a room for ya."

"What? Why?"

"For when your parents' 'ouse sells. 'e didn't want you to be 'omeless, an' you won't live with 'im o'course."

"The house has already sold," Rose told him. She'd been staying with Mel, her old friend from work these last two weeks.

"'e didn' know that, Rosie. It's a surprise. It's not finished yet because 'e's not always… able to do it when 'e's 'ere."

 _Manic one minute, out of it the next_ , Rose thought, her heart growing heavy the closer she physically came to seeing Sherlock again. She'd tried so hard not to care about him, and it had become easier once she had the distraction of uni.

The lectures and tutorials, late night group Skype sessions and socialising in the uni pub and coffee shops were part of a new life that Rose loved and thrived in. Her promotion to head office at work due to Gus's mysterious and sudden termination gave her an increase in earnings she hadn't expected, even though she was only working part-time now. She still managed to do her counselling work with the ASXX, less frequently though, because of the enormous workload that came with studying for her Masters in Forensic Psychology.

At home she didn't miss Sherlock's physical presence. He'd never been to her parents' house, so there was no space that he had once occupied that tormented her in his absence. She couldn't imagine him exhausted due to inactivity attempting to stretch out on the tiny two-seater in the living area. Forget about them both snuggling in front of the telly. And where would he go for a smoke? Certainly not in the common area through the back double doors, where neighbours' kids kicked their soccer balls and other smokers and drinkers often congregated on a Friday night after work, weather permitting. Rose slept on a single bed in the guest room (she thought it odd to sleep in her parents' bed), so there was no empty space beside her where Sherlock Holmes ought to have slept.

Living this relatively normal life put a new perspective on the previous life she had once shared with Sherlock since his return to London in November last year. Her time with him began to feel surreal, dream-like—the fits of lethargy, the manic bursts of energy and streams of deductions, the midnight sojourns through the city, the condom testing and goodbye rituals, making love in the shower, the list of negatives against sex in the bath, smoking on the balcony, toking underneath a blanket, wedding preparations… all of it. An hallucinogenic dream.

This was her life now. This was her reality. It felt comfortable, like an old coat, and there were no stresses beyond essay deadlines and London transport issues affecting her commute between her workplaces, home and uni.

But then came the tiny tears in the fabric of her peaceful existence. It began with a seemingly innocuous, almost forgettable, news story. A forty-something female MP was left shame-faced and embarrassed when photographs circulated of her performing a private strip-tease for a former boyfriend's twenty-first birthday celebrations when she herself had been twenty. The story only ran for a week, but the photos had leaked onto the internet. Rose witnessed the media frenzy second-hand, an uncomfortable churning in her gut the entire time.

A month or so later came the news items that hit closer to home. Two more MPs were exposed, a week apart, for their own seedy indiscretions. These members were sitting on the Media and Communications Committee—the same committee Sherlock had ensured John Garvie resign from and the one that had been investigating Charles Augustus Magnussen.

One member had embezzled funds from a charity he chaired. His family were hounded by the press and questioned over how they had financed their last family holiday, until it was also exposed that the MP had once joined a stag group for a weekend abroad to visit brothels in Amsterdam.

The second MP was taken through the wringer for having a string of affairs with different staff members, both male and female, in the early years of his career and while he was still married to his first wife.

Rose followed one of his ex-lover's interactions with the press in particular. She was in her mid-twenties, and now a junior clerk in a tiny barristers' chamber in Shoe Lane. Rose saw the toll the exposure had taken on the woman, and she felt sick about it. The story came to its dramatic conclusion when the young clerk attempted to end her life through an overdose of sleeping pills, prompting a debate about the ethics of media organisations.

Rose's work and studies suffered for a month after that. But the last straw came during a group assignment and a discussion about which institutions (both law enforcing and rehabilitation) they could theoretically approach for their case studies. The talk turned to individual criminals, with the majority of females in the group deciding that they would love to have had a conversation with James Moriarty, had he still been alive. One of the males in her group, to whom Rose had already taken an instant dislike, said, "Bollocks. That fake detective is the real criminal." And then the conversation became rather heated as the majority of females were in support of Sherlock Holmes, while the two males took him to task over his fake death and subsequent resurrection.

Rose had unsuccessfully tried to steer the conversation back to the list of law enforcement agencies, but she finally gave up and made her excuses to leave the pub due to work commitments.

The idea that her two worlds could collide so easily gnawed at Rose for some time. Finally the seed of an idea—to join her family in Scotland, to enrol in a lesser course in Edinburgh—took root until she became quite driven to see her plans carried out.

Just this week's devastating news was reinforcement enough that Rose's decision to flee London was the right one. Lord Smallwood's letters had been made public. Sherlock had lost, Rose thought. She would never be safe here.

So several hours before her flight was due to leave, she found herself scrambling to say her final goodbyes to Billy… and now, Sherlock.

After giving Billy a weary smile, Rose continued up the two flights of stairs unaccompanied and strode the length of the corridor past Billy's door. She stopped outside the newest addition to the doss house: a brand new timber door, freshly painted in dark blue. She reached out and tentatively knocked. When she heard no sound from within, she tried the door handle. She was surprised to find that the door wasn't locked like Billy's usually was.

After quietly pushing the door open, Rose peered in.

The room was lit by a single lamp placed on a stool bedside the bed. Cardboard covered the window in place of a curtain, and Rose could see that one wall had been painted white up to a couple of feet below the cornice. The rest of the walls remained coated in various stages of old peeled paint.

Rose's insides twisted at the sight of Sherlock fast asleep, stretched out on the single bed that ran the length of one wall. Her skin began to prickle, but a warmth rippled through her that was quite unexpected, yet was a welcome familiarity.

Rose softly closed the door behind her and crossed the floor. A couple of floorboards creaked beneath her feet. As she neared the bed, she could hear Sherlock's faint snores. Her insides fluttered at the familiar sound, remembering his continual denials about it. He was far too clever for his body to do something so indelicate and ordinary as snoring, he'd always implied. It usually happened when he lay on his back, like he was doing now, when he was physically exhausted and had been sleep deprived in the days prior. She wondered what Sherlock had been up to with Billy to have him crash in the early evening still clad in his work shirt and trousers.

There were many occasions at Leinster Gardens where Rose had sat at her dining table studying and Sherlock lay on her sofa yelling at a crime thriller, only to fall asleep within the hour, snoring lightly. She would always sit by his side and run her hand through his curls before pressing a kiss to his lips until he stirred.

And just like that, a harsh realisation slammed itself into Rose's mind, overriding all other thoughts.

This here was her sharp reality. Sherlock Holmes: her relationship with him—everything they'd built together, the rituals, the trust, the emotional upheavals and triumphs. How could she have forgotten the enormous part he once played in her life?

Her entire body now flooded with both regret and despair.

That other life over the last few months, of irrelevant academic discussions, office work dilemmas, and persistent estate agents, had all been a dream.

"Sherlock," she said, her voice a light tremble. Was she calling him or suddenly realising who he was and what he meant to her?

Rose's chest grew tight, her heart a dull thud. A decision had to be made. Should she flee now without saying goodbye? She wouldn't be able to face him with the weight of her decision burdening her. Involuntarily she took a step backwards, but then she realised the snoring had stopped. She surmised that Sherlock's subconscious had heard her call and he was now climbing out of a deep sleep.

Tentatively, she took a step forward again. His huge presence in both her heart and this room drew her to him like a moth to a flame.

"Sherlock?" she said again, then mentally kicked herself. She _hadn't_ actually decided what to do and here she was impulsively calling to him again. In her heart, she knew she wanted him to wake.

But had he stopped breathing? Was he awake now?

In the blink of an eye, Sherlock was suddenly upright. One hand immediately grabbed at the lamp and had raised it off the stool ready to strike, while one leg slipped off the bed to gain purchase.

Rose's eyes widened.

"No!" she called. "It's me."

Sherlock froze. He tilted his head and blinked as if to rid himself of the haze of sleep. He slowly lowered the lamp. His voice, when it came, was hoarse, yet filled with hope and a tiny sprinkling of disbelief.

"Rose?"


	68. All Lives End; All Hearts Are Broken

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because of the formatting of this chapter, if you're reading on a device that doesn't display italics, you may find it confusing to follow.

"Janine managed it once. She makes the funniest noises."

Sherlock turned his head toward Magnussen, the churning in his gut intensifying, the hatred hardening his heart.

The sound of a helicopter circling Appledore thankfully took the media proprietor's focus away from continuing to flick John Watson's eyeball. The helicopter blades pushed the rapidly chilling air toward them. They silently watched it pass behind the trees before hovering over the perfectly manicured lawn in front of them. A voice that Sherlock immediately recognised as his brother's commanded over a loud speaker:

"Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, stand away from that man!"

" _Sherlock."_

_Sherlock slowly stirred. He didn't want to wake. He almost always dreamt about her, but her voice rang loud and clear in his mind this time._

" _Sherlock?"_

_No. Wait. This wasn't a disembodied voice. There was somebody in this room with him right now. He hadn't heard them enter. Clearly they had been trying to approach him stealthily. Priming himself for an assault, Sherlock stopped breathing. A weapon. He needed a weapon!_

_In one swift movement, he reached for the lamp that he knew sat next to the bed and sat up simultaneously, poised to strike._

_"No!" called a familiar yet panicked voice. "It's me."_

_Sherlock's heart tripped over itself. It couldn't be! He refocussed his gaze, slowly lowering the lamp._

_"Rose?" he asked tentatively, but he could plainly see that it was her._

Magnussen and John had turned their attention to the hovering helicopter. Sherlock had stayed frozen by the glass doors during John's ordeal, but his mind had been continually calculating.

"Here we go, Mr Holmes," Magnussen said, turning to face Sherlock.

Sherlock debated whether or not this was going to play out exactly as Magnussen had predicted. But Sherlock may have other plans. The weight of his decision hung in the air as heavily as the chopper in front of them.

_Rose gave a faint, but unnecessary nod. Sherlock's chest expanded as he approached her. But her expression—her round, moist eyes, and the smile that couldn't quite form on her lips—told Sherlock all he needed to know._

_"Sherlock, I'm..." she said, taking a tiny step back from him as he approached._

_"—here to say goodbye," he finished for her._

_He felt a pang in his chest. It was too late. He already knew this. Months of keeping an eye on Rose had revealed these facts to him and yet he had refused to do anything about it; he had decided against confronting her. He didn't want to acknowledge all he had deduced about her. He had seen the headlines as well. He then uncovered the steps she had taken to leave London for Edinburgh, for good: her possessions being sent ahead of her, moving in with her work colleague, giving a month's notice at Roches, and purchasing a_ one-way _airline ticket._

 _He had hoped it would only be temporary. It_ had _to be temporary, because he had made his own plans. Plans to keep her safe. And now tonight, on the eve of him executing those plans, she was choosing to leave him._

_"Yes," she said, sounding unsure of her answer._

_Sherlock continued approaching Rose, hoping she wouldn't turn and walk out. When she didn't, he gathered her up in his arms, every nerve ending in his body tingling as his senses were assaulted by her scent and the way her body instantly molded to his._

_"Not now," he said, his voice rough with emotion. "Wait until the new year."_

_Tears began to well in her eyes, sure signs that Sherlock's pleas would fall on deaf ears._

_"It's too late," she said, in a voice barely above a whisper._

_"No," Sherlock said, a slight shake of his head. "I've got a plan... just... wait." He was faltering, desperate, his mind scrambling. He should've approached her earlier. He should've let her in on the plan! "Tomorrow... I've..."_

_She shook her head, her bottom lip trembling a little._

_"Did you see what he did? That... woman... and now the... letters."_

_She was crying now and Sherlock's heart sank. He_ wasn't _too late. He couldn't be._

_"It will be okay," he said, attempting to keep his voice steady. "After tomorrow I'll know how to infiltrate the vaults. I'll destroy it all, and then we can... It will be safe enough so we can... be together."_

_Rose shook her head again, and pushed lightly against Sherlock's chest._

_"But he knows," she said, her tears falling freely. "I'm sorry, Sherlock. We can't be... Because he knows." Sherlock slackened his hold on Rose, desperately searching her face for the conviction behind her words. "As long as he knows... as long as he exists," she began, "we can never... be together."_

_"No," Sherlock said firmly, his voice hitching in his throat. "I can get rid of the evidence, Rose. Destroy it all."_

Sherlock stepped forward, an idea coming into his mind, fully formed.

He spoke loudly and confidently over the noise of the helicopter.

"To clarify," he said walking away from the glass doors, "Appledore's vaults only exist in your mind—nowhere else, just there." Sherlock stopped beside John and looked to Magnussen for an answer.

The blackmailer turned his gaze towards the helicopter.

"They're not real," he said, his confident smile unwavering. "They never _have_ been."

_"I'm sorry," Rose said._

_Sherlock had dropped his arms from around her. He felt far too weak to argue with her, to make her see reason. For months he had simply struggled to regain his footing in the world, to work out what really mattered. His mind had often raced ahead of his body. Physically he couldn't keep up. And there were those times his mind failed him completely._

_Mary and John had kept him focussed on what was important. Their relationship. Their impending family. Though they were separated, he could see the evidence of their love for each other whenever he spoke to them individually. And he hadn't accepted that he'd never see Rose again. That was a ridiculous notion. But John and Mary, whatever it took, he had sworn to them in front of their wedding guests, he would always be there for them. Whatever it took. And the same applied to Rose. He couldn't let her give up so easily._

This case was as much for the survival of Mary and John's relationship as it initially had been for his, Sherlock thought as the helicopter continued to hover in front of them. He smiled grimly to himself.

Mycroft's voice came over the loud speaker once more.

"Sherlock Holmes and John Watson: _step away_."

"It's fine," Magnussen called out, walking toward the edge of the patio and addressing Mycroft in the helicopter. "They're harmless."

_So he had to tell her. Now._

_His heart hammered in his chest, but Sherlock reached for her hands. A heady rush of emotion caused him to falter. He could feel his throat beginning to tighten, so he forced the words out before it completely constricted._

_"I love you."_

_For a split second Rose was stunned. She hiccupped out a sob as Sherlock's head reeled at the words he'd spoken aloud. Just three words. So simple, yet so terrifyingly difficult to voice. He searched Rose's face for an acknowledgement._

_Her face was crumbling but she squeezed his hands back._

_"I know you do," she finally whispered._

_Sherlock pulled Rose into his embrace and held her tightly. He couldn't say anything else. All along they had been the hardest words for him to utter, yet the easiest to feel when he had Rose in front of him. Why had it taken him so long to say them?_

_He felt her trembling in his arms. She was acknowledging that it was over, Sherlock surmised, his heart-rate now erratic. Even if she had made the decision months ago, she must know that leaving London gave a finality to their relationship._

_Rose eased back, wiping at her eyes. She steadied herself against his chest, looked up at him and said, "Goodbye, Sherlock."_

_His heart stuttered. The goodbye ritual. But he still brought his head down and met her lips with his. The gift of her kiss was powerfully arousing and he was consumed by it._

Sherlock could sense the special armed forces rushing into position along the glass frontage of Magnussen's residence. Radio static burst into life, and an officer's voice spoke.

"Target is not armed. I repeat, target is not armed."

John finally overcame his shock at that moment, his complexion still a paler shade of white.

"Sherlock, what do we do?" he asked urgently as armed officers scrambled across the lawn toward them.

_Rose and Sherlock tore away at each other's clothes, the air humming between. It became a race, of pleasure, desperation and almost punishment. The last time, Sherlock couldn't help but think, this is the last time he would get to make love to Rose._

_He felt the violence simmering beneath it all, the hunger and the pain. He filled himself with her, shuddered her name and clung to her during their final release. He hoped she would wrap herself around him and rest her head in the crook of his neck for the rest of the night, but Rose lay breathlessly beside him for only a few seconds before rising to gather up her clothing._

"Nothing," Magnussen responded over his shoulder. He turned his attention to both John and Sherlock. "There's nothing to be done," he added congenially. "Oh, I'm not a villain. I have no evil plan. I'm a businessman, acquiring assets. You happen to be one of them."

_"Rose," Sherlock said, his bare chest heaving._

_She didn't turn to face him, but continued dressing. Despite feeling physically sated, Sherlock felt lost, bereft of her company. He slid from the bed himself and stooped to retrieve his own clothes. He silently dressed, matching Rose garment for garment._

_She held her coat in one hand as she finally turned to him._

_"I'm sorry, Sherlock," she said. Her cheeks were flushed and she combed her fingers through her hair before turning to the door._

_"Wait," he choked out._

_This couldn't be it. How can 'I'm sorry' be her final words?_

_"Don't you know," he said moving toward her, "our relationship is supposed to survive against all odds. That's what they say."_

_Her eyes appeared to cloud over, as if she was mentally blocking his words._

_"We... love... each other," he said, his voice rasping slightly. He had backed her up against the door. "I love you," he said again, reaching for her, "and you..." Here, he faltered, because it had just dawned on him that she hadn't reciprocated his sentiment earlier. Rose's jaw tightened as he continued to gaze down at her. "Do... you love me?" he asked, his voice almost strangled on the way out. A loud buzz began to resound in his ears as Rose's expression became neutral. It took her a moment before she could answer._

Sherlock turned his gaze toward John. His best friend's whole world was also crumbling around him. The reconciliation that had just happened between John and Mary in the sitting room of his parents' cottage was about to be destroyed by this man and his plans to gain wealth and power. Why should two people who so obviously love one another be denied the right for a harmonious life together?

 _"As long as he exists,"_ Rose's words replayed in his mind, " _we can never be together._ "

"Sorry," Magnussen said. "No chance for you to be a hero this time, Mr Holmes."

_"No," Rose replied, her voice devoid of emotion as blood leached from Sherlock's face. "I don't love you. Not any more."_

"Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, stand away from that man," came Mycroft's voice once more. "Do it now."

_Confusion flitted across Sherlock's face. She's lying, he thought. Why is she lying? All the evidence was there. Her gaze had never wavered and there was determination set firmly in her jaw. She wanted him to believe the lie, but why?_

_Sherlock's blood became heated beneath his skin. She wanted to leave him even though her heart wasn't in it. She was lying more to herself than to Sherlock. She was going to ruin everything._

_He stiffened, but narrowed his eyes as he stared down at her._

_"So what was that?" he said, gesturing vaguely toward the bed. "_ What the fuck _was that!"_

Sherlock's mind buzzed with a multitude of thoughts. _Hero,_ he thought derisively. He'd once told John Watson that if heroes existed, then he wasn't one of them. People thought they knew him, and knew what was best for him, but he knew that only he had the power and the courage to do what was necessary.

"Oh, do your research," he said, stepping closer to John. His heart beat a pulse in his ears as he brushed past John, dipping a hand into his best friend's jacket pocket.

_Rose tilted her chin upward in defiance._

_Looking Sherlock squarely in the eye, she said, "You and I both know it's possible to have sex without love."_

Sherlock walked closer to Magnussen, John's standard army issue comfortable in his grasp.

Mary Watson's words echoed firmly in his mind. _People like Magnussen_ should _be killed._

"I'm not a hero..." he said.

_Sherlock's expression hardened. She was deliberately trying to hurt him._

_After everything he'd done._

_After everything he was going to do._

_"Get out," he said, standing back from the door._

_She blinked, an infinitesimal flicker of hurt on her face. That made him angrier than ever. Couldn't she be consistent with her lie?_

_"Get out!" he barked again._

As Magnussen turned to face Sherlock, he added, "I'm a high-functioning sociopath." He lifted his arm, aiming the gun at the power monger's head. " _Merry Christmas!_ " he snarled, squeezing firmly on the trigger.

_The door slammed downstairs, prompting Sherlock to move once more. She'd done it. She'd left him. He grabbed at the lamp, pulling its cord away from the socket and in a fit of rage, hurled it across the room._

"Man down, man down," came an officer's call over the radio.

_Blood pumped viciously through Sherlock's veins. She'd left him._

"Get away from me, John! Stay well back!"

John Watson looked about him in a state of shock.

"Christ, Sherlock!" he said, raising his own hands as officers swarmed around them.

"Stand fire!" came Mycroft's desperate call. "Do not fire on Sherlock Holmes! _Do not fire!_ "

_Sherlock stared into the blackness of the room. He imagined the lamp now protruding through a new hole in the wall. He could still feel his heart-rate thundering inside his chest. He'd finally given himself to somebody else and she had done this._

"Oh, Christ, Sherlock!"

_He couldn't keep her safe, but she had torn a hole right through him._

"Give my love to Mary," he said to John. His friend stared at him, his expression numb with shock. "Tell her she's safe now."

_Sherlock sank onto the edge of the bed, his eyes stinging, his breath becoming unsteady. She's gone, he thought, dropping his head into his hands. I failed her. She set out to hurt me with a lie, just so I'd let her go._

Sherlock stared out onto the grounds before him, the thudding of the helicopter blades making hypnotic thwacks inside his head. Laser pointers winked at him against the grey sky. As he raised his hands and sank to his knees he blanked out all activity around him. A man lay dead behind him. He was responsible. His mind couldn't quite comprehend the enormity of his actions. He had realised that although Rose had left him empty and devoid of love, he had now put himself in a position where he'd never get to see her again.

What had he done?


	69. You Really Think Anyone's Believing You?

Rose leant against the doorframe, sipping her champagne, a smile threatening to form on her lips despite the constant ache in her heart.

Her cousin's husband was wrestling the children for the last piece of a jigsaw puzzle they had been working on for the better part of the week. Other adults were chuckling around her while her mother's lips drew into a thin line of disapproval. That was Rose's signal to make herself scarce. Since it wasn't Mrs Sulford's place to scold her niece's husband in a home that wasn't her own, the woman would turn to the only other young person she _could_ reprimand in some way. In this case, her daughter.

Rose carefully navigated through the air kisses, and general comments of forced affection from the older women who were busy cleaning the kitchen and solving the world's problems. She knew her aunt and her mother's two cousins preferred to keep Rose at arm's length. Rose didn't know how much they knew—hell, she didn't even know how much her parents knew—but she had the distinct feeling that they thought she hadn't lived a respectable life in London.

After rugging up against the weather, she escaped through the back door into the tiny garden of her aunt and uncle's home in Craigleith Hill Gardens. It was raining lightly, so Rose hunched her shoulders against the icy droplets and quickly made her way across the synthetic lawn where the other twenty-somethings had congregated under the portico by the rear fence and out of sight of the kitchen window.

"Oh, fff-uck, quick," she heard someone say as she approached the dark shadows huddling together in an effort to keep warm and dry.

"'s all right. It's only our Rosemarie," said the voice of her second cousin, Malcolm.

Rose had a whole swag of second cousins that she barely knew since her mother's side of the family had left Scotland for England when her mother had only been an infant. Last year they went to Perth for Christmas, but it had been nearly ten years since Rose had set foot in Edinburgh. Over the years, she didn't always remember who was who, especially as they had all grown older and the interval between visits had grown longer.

"The kitchen's clean now, if that's what you were dodging," Rose said, chuckling lightly as their tight circle parted to allow room for her.

"We were hoping you'd tell us when Auntie Jean's Christmas pud was coming out," Malcolm said to her, handing her the joint that was doing the rounds.

Rose toked deeply as Louise, a cousin from Perth, said, "Sorry, we didn't ask you out here. We thought you didn't, y'know, since you didn't join us last year."

"I was trapped last year," Rose replied, narrowing her eyes against the smoke as she exhaled. She passed the joint to Adrian, Malcolm's best friend from around the corner. "I learnt all about how to make gravy from your mum. Her and Auntie Jean were arguing about it."

There was a light titter from around the group. Clearly they were all ahead of her in the _getting stoned on Christmas night_ ritual.

"So, what's the bud like in London?" Adrian asked, and all eyes were on Rose.

She shivered against the cold, clasping her gloved hands together, and went to make a lame joke about skunk from east London, as once told to her by Billy, when Malcolm beat her to it with a comment about Prince Harry.

She enjoyed their company, but felt envious of the close-knit family group that even Adrian, as their long-term friend, appeared to belong to. She was thankful that they seemed to accept her as one of them so easily, but they were still strangers to her.

Over the next half an hour, they rolled two more joints and passed them both around, regaling Rose with stories about their misadventures, specifically those of Malcolm and Adrian.

Rose had the distinct feeling Adrian was trying to pull her away from the conversation so they could chat in private. At the mention several times of someone called "Erin" in relation to Adrian by others in the group, she concluded, with some relief, that he had a girlfriend. Rose knew she was the new girl, and the novelty, so she tried not to let Adrian's attention bother her. It was hard not to react to him in some way. He was by far the loudest and wittiest of the group.

And his broad, closed-mouth smile was endearing. It reminded her of Sherlock's.

The small party drifted inside when it was time for Christmas pudding. Rose was relieved when her parents finally left; they lived two doors down and her mum told her they'd leave the backdoor unlocked for her. She was only staying there two nights, in their spare room—last night, and tonight—until her cousin Philippa's basement flat was ready for her.

Rose and the other twenty-somethings continued to drink but could no longer toke while they were inside. They played with the children's Christmas toys until the wee hours. Rose's stomach hurt from laughing so much. The drunker they got, the harder they were to understand, and Rose had the distinct impression they were laying on their Scottish accents rather thickly just to confuse her.

Finally, Louise drew her outside, and they had a private toke together with Lou giving Rose the rundown on everybody. It was with interest that she listened to Lou's take on Adrian and Erin's relationship—that they had been childhood sweethearts and had broken up dozens of times over the years, always getting back together until some other drama drew them apart. It seemed they both had been equally as unfaithful as the other. No one was really sure of their current relationship status since Erin had gone to the Highlands with her family for Christmas.

"So don't let Ade come onto ye," Louise said finally, curling her arm through Rose's. "I can tell he's keen."

"Well, don't leave me alone with him," Rose said, thinking the humour in her tone shone through.

"Ooh, ye are trouble," Lou said, lightly tapping Rose on the wrist. "They said you were trouble, but I didnae believe them."

Rose's head buzzed at that moment. _Trouble?_ Who said she was trouble, and _why_ was she trouble?

Before she had time to question Louise, the back door opened and the rest of the young people filed out, some staggering more than others. It seemed that they had been given their marching orders. Rose and Louise followed the group to the street. Farewells were made as if they would never see each other again. They were all staying a stone's throw from one another during the Christmas period and the coming week had further gatherings in the form of the three day Hogmanay celebrations in the city—the upcoming Scottish New Year festivities, so they hardly needed such long and drawn-out goodbyes.

But Rose was hugged within an inch of her life, and the revellers broke up into smaller groups as they made their way to several different homes in the surrounding suburb.

Rose found herself with only Louise and Adrian. She could hear the rest of the group singing _Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer_ at the top of their lungs as they strode around the bend. Ade's house was just around the corner from the house Rose's parents now owned. Since Louise was one of many relatives from out of town, she had opted to stay with Adrian and his parents, to ease the accommodation burden on all their other relatives.

At Adrian's enthusiastic suggestion that they show Rosemarie what he had made, Louise groaned and slumped as they walked along.

"God, naw," she said. "I'm blootert."

As Rose looked on, bewildered, Adrian hurdled her parents' front fence. Louise waved a hand at Rose and wished her a Merry Christmas, before continuing to stagger along the street. Rose bowed her head and sighed. She followed Adrian's path along the side of the house and around to the back verandah.

Adrian was already sitting in a double swing chair that hung by heavy chains secured to the underside of the verandah roof.

"I made this mah-sel," he boasted, pushing with his heels on the paving stones until the chair swung back a little. "Needs a good sanding. Tell yer parents I'll re-stain and varnish it for them."

Rose smiled ruefully as she approached him.

"It's lovely," she said.

Adrian patted the cushion next to him and Rose decided to humour him for a minute before calling it a night. It was nearly 2am and the temperature felt as if it was only one degree above zero. She sank down onto the seat beside him, tucking her hands into her coat pockets and stifling a shiver.

"Rosemarie," he said, exaggerating the trill on the r's in her name. He leant closer when she turned her head. "I've been waiting all evening tae ask ye this." Rose's muscles tensed a little. "Tell us," he said, lowering his voice to a confidential pitch, "Were ye a stripper when ye lived in London?"

Rose's stomach dropped several inches, whereas Adrian's face lit up.

"I think that's just brilliant," he said, his smile widening and his eyes glistening in admiration.

Rose was aghast. "Why do you... how...?"

"Well," he said, scratching the ginger stubble on his cheek. "They're all talking about it, the lads."

"What? Who?"

"Mal told me, and his da' told him."

"Uncle Denis?"

"And your da' told Denis."

Rose's blood began to boil. And she suspected who had spilled the beans to her dad: her ex-boyfriend's parents, no doubt. _Ex_ ex-boyfriend, she corrected herself, because Sherlock was her most recent ex-boyfriend, wasn't he?

So her parents, or maybe just her dad, had been told after the cousin of Jimmy Dodd, her ex ex-boyfriend, had seen her working at the Rendezvous strip club one night, _checking coats._ She always suspected her dad knew _something._ He hardly spoke to her these days—only when he absolutely had to. It was another thing to feel disappointed in herself for. Not that she and her dad had ever been close, but now he could barely look at her.

Adrian chuckled beside her and Rose clenched her fists and stared straight ahead, fuming. She couldn't even deny it. What would be the point of vehemently arguing against the false accusation that she'd been working as a stripper _at the Rendezvous_ when she had performed at various 21st birthday parties and stag nights doing the very same thing as a free agent? And her occupation prior to that was much more seedy.

"So everybody knows?" she asked faintly.

"No' everybody, don't worry yer-sel."

Rose couldn't stop the pressure from building up behind her eyes.

"I didn't come all this way," she said, more to herself than Ade, "just to have my miserable life in London follow me here."

"Oh... hey," Ade said, placing his arm around the back of the chair and leaning in. "There's nowt tae worry about. I'll tell ye a wee story... I was about twenny, right. And at the community hall, right in front of everybody, I pulled doon mah breeks and showed them all mah banger. I was steamin' and I lost a bet."

"You what?"

"D'you think auld Mrs Mackenzie from around the corner doesn't think of mah dobber every time I go round and clean her drains? Of course she does. But I get her drains cleaned and she still pays me."

Rose furrowed her brow and looked up at Adrian.

"Is that supposed to make me feel better?"

"Aye," he replied, beaming with confidence. "So... when you go 'round... now what were you going tae study again?"

"Criminology and Forensic Psychology."

"Yeah... well, when someone wants their criminal forensics... psycho-whatsit, you'll just do the work, won't ye? And ye know, maybe they'll stare at yer chebs, but still…"

"My _c_ _hebs_?"

"Yer tits."

Rose gaped at the man, barely suppressing a laugh.

"So, you'll get the job done tae the best of yer ability. But, ye know, they'll stare at yer chebs anyway, stripper or no," he added with a sly smile.

Rose couldn't help but chuckle lightly, but it did little to reduce the panic that was rising inside. She had only just arrived here in Edinburgh, for fuck's sake, and this is what everyone already thought.

"It does make me feel marginally better," she replied in mildly good spirits. Or mildly drunken spirits.

"There you go," Ade said. "An' if it makes ye feel even more better, I'll stop thinking o' ye as Rosemarie, the stripper from London. I wilnae expect ye tae get in the scud an' gie it laldy at Hogmanay."

Rose furrowed her brow, not having a clue what Adrian was saying now. She suspected he was speaking like that on purpose again.

He gave her a wide smile, reached for her hand, and said, "I'll think o' ye as Rosemarie, the bonnie English Rose." He pressed his lips to the back of her gloved hand, his eyes dancing in amusement. Rose narrowed her eyes at him and took her hand back.

"That's very sweet of you," she said. "What would be even sweeter is if you could all stop talking about me and imagining me as a stripper." _There I go_ , she thought. _Neither confirming nor denying it._

"Aye," he said solemnly, his hand held over his heart, but a smile began to play on his lips once more.

Rose looked away from him and rested her head onto the back cushion. Adrian began pushing at the ground with his heels again, making the swing chair rock gently. Rose closed her eyes and only half-listened as Ade explained about growing up in the neighbourhood and his interactions with the family who had previously owned her parents' house. Her thoughts drifted to the events that had happened just over twenty-four hours ago.

Her heart heaved at the memory of lying to Sherlock about not loving him anymore. She had hurt him; she had seen it in his eyes. She fiercely regretted that moment, but it had to be done, she reasoned. She had to make him let her go. She hadn't expected to have sex with him one final time. It had been a combination of their previous spontaneous and passionate encounters and their careful and considerate love making. It had been many months since they'd last had sex, and the warmth of his embrace at the time had ignited small fires throughout her entire body.

A tiny snort next to her brought Rose's focus back to the freezing cold of the early hours of Boxing Day, the holiday after Christmas Day. Ade was lightly snoring, the swing chair having lulled him to sleep. Rose hadn't realised he'd stopped talking some time ago. She reached out and tapped him on the side of his thigh until he stirred.

"Ade," she said in a loud whisper.

"I'm fine," he muttered. He pulled his beanie lower over his face.

Rose slowly stood up and said, "Go home."

He grunted incoherently, so Rose said, "Merry Christmas, Ade," then left him alone on the verandah.

Over the next few days, with the exception of the weekend, Rose was kept busy helping her Uncle Denis in his office, conducting an informal audit while all his staff were on annual leave. Uncle Denis was a very imposing figure: a stiff and formal sort of man. Whether or not he thought of her as a stripper from London, he certainly didn't show it. She was being paid a paltry sum, but every contribution to her bank balance helped. It wasn't the best time for her to go job hunting anyway, and she didn't want to hang around her other relatives who were taking some of the out-of-towners sight-seeing.

Hogmanay celebrations were upon them in no time, and Rose found it easy to forget her worries with so many distractions around. There was a lot of drinking and toking with her cousins, and the last couple of days leading up to the New Year's Eve main event were mostly spent recovering from the various night's out beforehand.

Adrian was always the life of every gathering and Rose couldn't help but be drawn to him. His hair was also like Sherlock's, she concluded, with waves that ended in curls at his nape. Though Ade's was rusty brown, not black, he still raked his hands through it like Sherlock did. Rose would sigh, annoyed with herself, whenever she found herself staring at his tousled locks.

He was a cabinet maker by trade, but he seemed to pop into everybody's houses, fixing this or that. Rose had helped her cousin, Pippa, and husband, Luke, get their basement flat ready for her. Ade had stopped by a couple of times with supplies, renovation advice or a good old helping of elbow grease. His enthusiasm not to leave a stiff hinge un-oiled, or a window frame unsealed, reminded her of Sherlock stepping up to the countertop at Billy's to inspect the faulty extractor fan. And prior to that there was the heating duct that commanded his attention when the prostitute he was about to have sex with had shivered in her dressing gown.

Both men's zest for their work was an obvious comparison for Rose, but that was where the similarities ended. Adrian actively sought out the company of others just for a mere chat about anything with anyone. There never seemed to be a moment of quiet contemplation, nor did he demand a single moment of solitude in pursuit of mental enrichments.

Rose knew she wasn't attracted to Adrian for his own sake. There were certain aspects to him that simply reminded her of Sherlock, and that was all.

Still, Rose managed to avoid him at many of the evenings out, sticking mostly with the lassies—her cousins Louise and Gemma, and a handful of their female friends. She found the girls even more aggressive in their drinking without the males around.

At ten to midnight at the Hogmanay street party in the Edinburgh city centre, Rose found herself listening to Gemma and Malcolm along with Mal's girlfriend and a handful of others, arguing about what some of the lyrics to Auld Lang Syne meant. She and Gemma were leaning against one of the trees that lined the footpath alongside the many food and drink stands that supplied and fuelled street party-goers. She was completely tanked on vodka and some fruit concoction that she, Gemma and Louise had mixed and brought with them in flasks. The alcohol formed a thick sludge around her brain that had also been softened by toking on several poorly rolled spliffs over the course of the night.

She closed her eyes and let the noise of the revellers thicken around her. For a moment she was transported back to the last time she'd celebrated New Year's Eve.

London. Westminster. Big Ben.

She now assumed it had been a member of Cabinet's vehicle supplied by Sherlock's well-connected older brother that had allowed them through the barriers of cordoned off streets as they neared the Palace of Westminster. She recalled the staggering number of steps they had to climb inside the Elizabeth Tower, the hastened chug of champagne and the colourful characters that comprised the time keepers of Big Ben.

And she remembered Sherlock Holmes.

There had been the swell of the crowd humming with excitement and fuelled by alcohol, just like tonight. A continuous thrum of dance music filled her core, and the dazzling lights that lined the streets and flickered from the large screens along the way kept her mind ticking with images, real and imagined.

At the commencement of the countdown, Gemma pulled Rose over to where their group had gathered, all faces turned upward toward Edinburgh Castle, above which the fireworks would appear. Bleary-eyed and buzzing herself, Rose was swept up in the furore of excited voices as they counted down the seconds until midnight. The wind chilled her as it had done the year before. She could still be standing above the Great Bell in the Elizabeth Tower, the chanting of the revellers sprawled along the Victoria Embankment in London swelling up to her from below. Her heart thudded in her ears with the boom of voices around her.

As the count reached zero, she felt herself scooped up into Sherlock's arms, his lips immediately pressed to hers. She melted against him, her heart a dull ache for what could have been, what was and what could never be. The power of his kiss brought her hands to his hair, her fingers tangling into his wavy locks. The world swam around her, in and out of focus, but she was lost in the moment. They only had this moment, she and Sherlock, and then he would disappear into her mosaic of memories of life in London.

Crackers burst into the sky, party-goers whistled and cheered and bodies bumped against them. She felt their past history, of love, fear and passion, well up inside her. He finally broke free, and as the chilled night air cooled her lips, Rose was stunned to see that it wasn't Sherlock whose arms held her tightly.

Both disappointment and horror coiled inside her. Oblivious to her inner turmoil, Adrian beamed drunkenly at her and attempted to narrow the gap between them once more. Rose pressed firmly against his chest.

"No… wait…" she said breathlessly.

Bodies continued to jostle around them as other folk either craned to see the fireworks spectacle, or were hugging and wishing their friends and loved ones a Happy New Year. As Adrian furrowed his brows in puzzlement, a body slammed into them, splitting them apart and making Rose lose her balance. She was caught by her friends, Gemma and Louise, who were both as stunned as she was. They all turned to face Adrian, who was being shoved in the chest by a very angry blonde.

"And who the fuck is _that_!" the blonde screamed, suddenly pointing a manicured finger in Rose's direction.

Rose didn't get to see nor hear Ade's response as Gemma grabbed her by the elbow and pulled her away from their group, dazed and confused.

"Fuckin hell," Gemma said. "It's Erin! What were ye thinkin'?"

 _What was I…?_ Rose thought, her mind still fuzzy.

She tried to look back to where they had been standing, but the crowd was thick and pressed in against them.

"Here," Gemma said, handing Rose her flask, which Rose gratefully took.

The rest of their group eventually appeared out of nowhere, and their viewing of the fireworks was interspersed with more hugs, kisses and New Year's greetings. Rose's recollection became fragmented. A haze of blurred images became the sum total of the rest of her night—arm in arm singing Auld Lang Syne, the lyrics displayed on the numerous flatscreens along the street; more drinking, dancing, and staggering to where the free buses were departing the city centre; sitting on the kerb in a rough line for ages waiting for the next bus, propped up by Gemma, who was in as bad a state as she was. She spied Adrian and Erin a couple of times, snogging like a couple at the beginning of a new relationship.

On the bus bound west for Craigleith, Rose took the window seat and was pressed in by Gemma and some guy called Dave. Dave was quizzing Rose about being English to which Rose only responded intermittently. Gemma took up the discussion of her behalf.

Rose leant her head against the window, closing her eyes and willing herself to stay awake and not vomit.

As an English Rose amongst a bevy of Scottish lads and lassies Rose suddenly felt alien and out of place. As a blanket of loneliness stole over her, she hoped that Sherlock's New Year's had been a lot more fulfilling than hers. His special surprise for her by taking her up to Big Ben last year had been rattling around in her mind all night. Kissing Adrian—such a stupid mistake—made her feel as if she betrayed her love for Sherlock. And now here she was, feeling alone in a crowd on a bus in the wee hours at the start of a new year.

And then the realisation hit her that it was New Year's Day.

It was her twenty-ninth birthday.

* * *

Sherlock stood in the doorway at the top of the stairwell—just back enough to keep out of the rain—and exhaled his cigarette smoke skyward. It burnt his lungs and gave him a welcome head spin. But it wasn't enough—he knew that; they knew that. At least his solitary confinement did include a twice a day stint outside, rain, hail or shine.

 _Solitary confinement_ was supposed to be a punishment, but Sherlock now welcomed the time to think and be alone with his thoughts. The first two days hadn't been easy. He figured his Mind Palace had shutdown and restarted in Safe Mode. He barely remembered what he did and said exactly, but he did recall head-butting a security services officer. Asking Sherlock if he'd like 'someone to talk to' had triggered something unpleasant. Presumably the idea of talking to a _therapist_ or a _counsellor_ wasn't the best thing to suggest around him at the time.

 _One week,_ his brother had said, and it had now been a week, hadn't it?

"Ah, Sherlock," said a voice behind him. Right on schedule.

Sherlock took another lazy drag on his cigarette. Trust his brother to greet him as if the overstuffed git had just been for an evening stroll around a top secret facility and had simply bumped into him.

"How was Christmas dinner?" Sherlock asked, tilting his head back and luxuriating in his exhale once more. "I hope you all realised you had to throw out the rest of the punch."

"A decision has been made," Mycroft replied, as ever disregarding Sherlock's facetious remarks.

"Good," Sherlock replied. He dropped his cigarette butt to the concrete rooftop and stubbed it out with his shoe. He brushed past his brother who had stopped half a dozen steps from the top and said, "I hope you've brought me clean clothes."

"Sherlock."

He shot back, "Not that I don't like..." He pinched the seam of his grey institution-issued tracksuit pants. "But they're not the type of apparel one wears when boarding a plane bound for eastern Europe."

Mycroft Holmes remained where he had been standing, prompting Sherlock to pause and swivel around for the query he knew was on Mycroft's lips.

"How did you know?" his older brother asked.

Sherlock shrugged lightly.

"Where else were you going to put me? Into a general prison, or let me loose on the world? I don't see the emergency committee you cobbled together accepting either of those proposals." He turned, about to take the stairs again and asked, "What day is it today? New Year's Eve is it?" He began to descend, calling back, "Did you get my coat dry-cleaned at _my_ preferred establishment and not yours? I _can_ tell the difference, you know."

Sherlock left his brother standing alone with his head bowed as he hastened down the stairs from the rooftop with one security officer in front of him and one behind.

Sherlock knew that the officers who accompanied him only carried tasers. He had already deduced that they all knew he could manipulate or overpower them, and that they did not want a deadly weapon ending up in his hands.

Mycroft Holmes caught up to Sherlock at the lift waiting to descend once more into the bowels of the facility.

"It's New Year's Day," Mycroft said as they stepped into the lift.

"Sorry, what?"

"Today," Mycroft added. "It's not New Year's Eve. It's New Year's Day."

Sherlock attempted to recalibrate the chronometer in his Mind Palace. But this didn't compute.

"How… can it be?" But he didn't need an answer. _Obvious_. His two day meltdown had probably been more like _three_. Perhaps on the first day he'd been completely offline. _But_ _New Year's_ Day _? So_ _that means…_ "I… I need to organise something."

Mycroft Holmes stiffly turned to face him. The two blinks that preceded his next statement told Sherlock his brother was striving to keep emotions at bay.

"I regret there isn't time for you to be going off and organising things. Tell me what you need done and I'll ensure your… wishes are taken care of. After you've changed, we're to leave for the airfield immediately."

It was now Sherlock who could barely contain his emotions. He clenched a fist and the security officer behind him stiffened. Sherlock _had_ been expecting this... this sentencing. And he was planning to have a little breakdown about it once he was away from his brother and had the aid of something chemical to help him focus. That's _if_ Billy had been able to get away from his parents' cottage and had made it back to London unmolested. Only time would tell. If he didn't get what he needed prior to boarding the plane, well... he didn't like to think about it.

But that other thing he was supposed to organise. It was already New Year's Day. Would he be too late?

The party made their way along endless corridors in silence until they reached the 'cell' in which Sherlock had been incarcerated. An officer stood by holding the clothes Sherlock had been wearing the day he entered.

"I'm not changing here," Sherlock said, about facing so that his brother had to come to an abrupt halt behind him. "We're going via your place. I want a proper shower and a shave. The car's this way isn't it?"

Sherlock's coat would be waiting for him at the airfield, Mycroft advised him, since it had to come all the way from Sherlock's own drycleaner. Sherlock internally rejoiced. There was a chance Billy had seen to his needs after all.

After Sherlock had showered, shaved and dressed at Mycroft's residence around the corner from the Diogenes Club, he approached his brother who was just ending a phonecall in his study.

"I want something delivered to a person of significance today," Sherlock stated without preamble, "and on this day every year for the rest of her life. And... even then..."

Mycroft Holmes's barely stifled eyeroll was not lost on Sherlock. He expected as much. His older sibling would presume that Sherlock was being overly dramatic about something.

However Mycroft drew in necessary oxygen as he reached into his jacket pocket for his brown moleskine notebook. Turning to the next available page, he asked, "Name?"

"Rosemarie Sulford," Sherlock replied without hesitation. "I believe you're familiar with her."

To his credit, Mycroft remained silent as he scribbled across the page.

"She's now living in Edinburgh," Sherlock volunteered, "but I suspect you know that already."

"Indeed we do," Mycroft said, eventually looking up at Sherlock. "What's she doing there?"

" _Living,_ " Sherlock said through narrow eyes.

"And what would you like delivered to her?"

"Why don't I just write it down myself," Sherlock said, reaching for Mycroft's notebook.

Mycroft locked eyes with Sherlock for a few seconds before carefully placing his notebook down onto the desk. Holding the pages open, he handed Sherlock his pen. Sherlock knew what he was doing. The pompous git was ensuring that Sherlock didn't turn over any of the pages and have a sticky-beak into whatever else Mycroft may have written about him.

As he stooped to scribe the details, Sherlock sensed movement behind him in the doorway to the office.

"Excuse me, sir," came Anthea's voice. "The Watsons have been picked up. They should be at the airfield in thirty minutes."

Sherlock's heart tripped over itself at the prospect of someone coming to the airfield to see him off. His _best friend._ He straightened up upon finishing.

"The Watsons?" he asked.

"Of course," Mycroft said with a reassuring smile before withdrawing his notebook from Sherlock's proximity. "Anthea," he said to his assistant and holding up the page where she could see it. "See to it that this is carried out by our people in Edinburgh, immediately."

Anthea quickly scanned the page, then said, "Will do, sir."

The trip to the airfield left no time for Sherlock to dwell on his fate. Mycroft handed the Consulting Detective several files that Sherlock had to sift through and commit to memory the important details contained within.

Once they arrived, Sherlock was escorted upstairs to a lounge overlooking the tarmac. Anthea presented him with his coat, which Sherlock casually folded over one arm. He attempted to quell his anxiety about the coat's potential contents.

"When are the Watsons due?" he asked her.

"Fifteen minutes, sir."

Sherlock looked on as his brother entered the lounge area after having spoken to the pilot. Sherlock feigned a moment of spontaneous realisation.

"I need to use the bathroom," he said.

Mycroft nodded to a security officer who preceded Sherlock toward the facilities. Sherlock had to wait while the amenities were inspected prior to him entering. With a nod in thanks to the officer, Sherlock entered the men's room. He stood stock still and systematically scanned his surroundings for hidden surveillance cameras. Finally, he entered one cubicle, stood on the lid of the toilet and continued his perusal of the surrounding area from up high. Satisfied that he wasn't being monitored, Sherlock stepped down.

He sat on the lid of the toilet and folded his coat across his lap. Heart hammering in eager anticipation, Sherlock began examining the lining and seams inside the coat.

 _Come on, Billy_ , he thought, anxiety levels beginning to rise.

But what if Billy didn't manage to get away? Sherlock had outlined so many scenarios to his protégé that Billy may have become confused as to which plan to implement.

At the feel of bulkiness inside the hem at the bottom of the coat below the front left side pocket, Sherlock had to stifle a potential outburst of glee.

Billy had delivered!

Sherlock examined the stitching, which was broken in three places. Sliding a finger into the hole, he was able to loosen several more stitches, making the hole wider. He used his index and middle fingers as pincers, easily manipulating out of the hem a rolled up plastic baggie containing Billy's special recipe.

Adrenalin coursed through Sherlock's veins as he rubbed the smooth plastic between his fingers. Snapping out of his reverie, he realised that the business end had arrived and he'd better get to it before his brother grew suspicious. Not having any equipment, he'd have to do this the old fashioned way, with a rolled up five pound note. He'd have just a sampling now and save the rest to have during the flight.

Unrolling the plastic bag, Sherlock found that Billy had written on it with a permanent marker. His message read:

_Bon voyage, mate. BW_

* * *

Rose had made it as far as the sofa in her basement flat after showering. She'd rouse herself to make a cup of tea in a minute. This could quite possibly be the worst hangover she'd ever experienced in her life. Why had she been so keen to embrace this way of life?

She still had several hours of recovery time before she was due at her parents' for her birthday dinner.

She thought she heard a couple of faint knocks on the internal door to the main house and hoped she was wrong. Her cousin kept saying they wouldn't use the doorway that led from their kitchen down to the basement flat, and instead they'd go the long way around, out their front door and alongside the house to the back where Rose's main entrance doors were. Due to the ever-present Scottish drizzle, they never seemed to choose the latter option.

 _We won't be intruding on your private space_ , her cousin had insisted.

Rose internally groaned as the door swung inwards.

"Oh, I didn't think you'd be up already," Pippa said, balancing a tray in one hand and gently closing the door with the other. "It's quiet up there for once," she said, indicating her household. As she made her way toward Rose, she added, "Luke's finally fixed the peddle on the trike. They've gone fer a test drive."

Rose awkwardly sat up, reluctantly eyeing the contents of the tray.

"Have this first," Pippa said, handing Rose a tall glass of fizzy liquid.

"You really shouldn't have," Rose said as Pippa placed the tray onto the coffee table in front of her.

Pippa remained standing and watched as Rose downed the vitamin B drink in several large gulps.

"I was young once," Pippa said with a sly smile. "I know what the day after Hogmanay is like, don't ye worry."

Rose felt her stomach churn as she took in the plate of toast and baked beans in front of her.

"It's very kind of you," Rose said feebly. She longed to lie back down again, but Pippa was hovering in front of her, wringing her hands. Rose felt as though her cousin, who was ten years older than her, wanted to say something more.

"Y'know, Rosemarie," she began with a grim smile. "We think of Ade as one of the family 'round here." _Oh God,_ Rose thought. _Here it comes._ "And he and Erin make such a sweet couple."

"Yes, they do," Rose volunteered in quick time. In reality, she had no idea. She'd never even met this mysterious Erin until Rose had been on the receiving end of the young woman's jealous rage.

"So, ye see, love, you've messed up his head a wee bit, the poor lad."

 _What the fuck...?_ Rose thought, but out loud she asked, "I'm sorry?"

"What happened last night... in front of Erin..."

"It was New Year's Eve," Rose said, her chest tightening. "It was midnight. Everyone was kissing everybody else."

"Yes, well, love...That's not how some saw it, but they're saying that's not the first time either."

"What are you talking about?"

Pippa made herself comfortable on the corner of the coffee table in front of Rose.

"Christmas night. Lou said Ade didn't come home until the wee hours. And you two had gone off together."

Small creases appeared in Rose's brow. Her head was far too fuzzy for this conversation.

"He fell asleep on the verandah," she said softly. "At mum and dad's, in the swing chair. I didn't know he spent all night there. I went to bed... by myself."

Pippa's resigned smile told Rose that the older woman assumed Rose was embellishing the truth. But at that moment, the door to the house flew inwards once more and the whirlwind that was Pippa's six-year-old flew down the handful of steps, closely followed by his eight-year-old sister and Luke, their dad.

"Eh," said Pippa, as Aaron climbed onto the sofa and stood leaning heavily into Rose. "I thought you were going out?"

"We got waylaid," said Luke.

"By a special delivery," giggled Mia, the eight-year-old. She had a grin that spread from ear to ear and was holding something behind her back. Clearly not the best keeper of secrets.

"It's yer birthday!" Aaron yelled a little too loudly in Rose's ear.

"Eh, weesht, you! And get down, feet off!" admonished Pippa. To Rose she said, "What's this? Is it your birthday?"

At the same time, Mia drew out a single stem red rose from behind her back.

"MI6 delivered it," Luke said, casually strolling over. "Or at least it looked like it."

"What?" Pippa asked.

Rose's stomach had dropped several inches. She thanked Mia for the rose and told Pippa that it really was her birthday.

"What d'you mean, MI6?" Pippa asked her husband.

"Black car, dark windaes, a man in a suit with one of those ear piece things over his ear. The Secret Service. I thought the Prime Minister was about tae get out, but it was just him and the rose. Or maybe it was MI5."

"Must've been one of those theme deliveries," said Pippa thoughtfully.

"Odd sort of theme," mused Luke. "Doesn't seem like a fun get-up. And I had tae sign fae it and show I.D."

"Perhaps that's all they could manage on New Year's Day," added Pippa.

"MI5? Perhaps our Rosemarie's really a spy."

"It says _Happy birthday, Rose,_ " said Mia, pointing to the gift tag that Rose hadn't failed to notice. "They forgot the _Marie_ , didn't they?" the girl lamented.

"Some people just call me _Rose,_ " Rose said.

"Are ye a spy?" said Aaron, catching on.

Rose smiled at him a shook her head.

"Oh, and sorry," Mia said somberly, holding up a red petal. "This fell off when Aaron tried tae grab it frae mah."

"I didnae grab it!" Aaron protested.

"That's okay," Rose said. "It's still beautiful."

"Well, then," Pippa said, rising from the coffee table. "Come on, the pair of ye. If it's Rosemarie's birthday I think we'd better get busy baking a cake."

Twin voices whooped in unison, almost rupturing Rose's eardrums.

Luke tried to usher the children out of the basement. But before he left, Aaron offered Rose an intense gaze.

"Rosemarie," he said mournfully. "Ye lookin' affy peely-wally."

Rose gave a weak smile in response to the six-year-old's concern. "I think I am, a bit," she said, ruffling his hair.

Luke and the children left while Pippa smiled at Rose with some affection.

"That's a nice gesture, isn't it?" She indicated the rose.

"Yes," Rose said faintly, thinking her cousin was fishing for an explanation. "A friend from London," she said, hazarding a guess. "Having a bit of a joke, I presume."

"Expensive sort o' joke."

"Uni students?" Rose suggested.

"I'll leave ye to it then," Pippa said, stepping away from the coffee table. "Look, I know ye just need tae settle in a bit. Find ye feet." There were unspoken words in Pippa's concerned gaze.

 _Settle in, as in, stop fucking other people's boyfriends?_ Rose thought.

"Try tae get something down, will ye." Pippa indicated the tray of food then bent over Rose and kissed her forehead. "Happy birthday, love." Rose thanked Pippa again and watched as her cousin followed the rest of her family back up into the house.

After the door clicked shut, Rose examined the gift tag one more time. A florist's handwriting obviously, _Happy Birthday, Rose,_ but delivered by a man in a suit wearing an ear piece and looking like he was from the Security Services?

She assumed it would only be Sherlock who was willing and capable of organising such a thing. But why would he go to the effort when they'd parted ways so unpleasantly just over a week ago. Did he still care enough to go to all that trouble, or was this from somebody else—somebody sinister?

Feeling apprehensive, she turned the gift tag over. A warmth flooded through her at the initials she found there:

_S.H._

x

* * *

There was more than one realisation here, Sherlock thought as he strode across the tarmac, donning his coat.

"Sherlock, hang on," John Watson said, hot on the detective's heels. "Explain. Moriarty's alive, then?"

Sherlock did explain to the Watsons that Moriarty was dead—there was no question about it. He even braved a sheepish glance at John after admitting he had gone through an overdose just to prove it.

But as they climbed into the car, and sped away from the airfield, Sherlock reflected on his other discovery while trapped in the confines of the case he had embellished for himself in his Mind Palace and under the influence. The women in the cult-like organisation had all been lied to, betrayed, ignored, or disparaged by him in some way. That's who they represented. Molly Hooper and Janine Hawkins had featured prominently by his end reveal. But searching his memories of those figures present, Sherlock knew that Rose had not been among them. His mind had concluded that he hadn't done anything wrong by Rose. She had lied to him about not loving him anymore. There was still a chance for them. And now that Charles Augustus Magnussen was out of the picture…

Sherlock settled into the back of the car, a new zest for life coursing through his veins. A potential pardon, an intriguing case, and the incentive to head north as soon as he had the chance.

To Edinburgh, eventually. For Rose.


	70. You're Hardly Going to Need Me Around

Two weeks into her course and there was already a mountain of reading. The knowledge of placements for the current trimester should've thrilled her, but Rose couldn't concentrate at all. Now that the idea had been planted in her mind, it wouldn't leave her.

Late.

She was late.

She was sure of it. She tried to recall the last time. She was quite regular but with the stress of packing and leaving for Scotland, the exact date eluded her. It was heading towards the end of January and she should've had her period by now. She knew stress, a change in diet, a sudden increase in exercise or illness could all cause a late or missed period, but in her heart she knew that that wasn't the cause at all.

There was a very simple and obvious explanation.

Rose had broken up with him months before the deed—not that he knew it. And when the last of her contraceptive pills had been taken, she didn't care to get another prescription. Why would she? She didn't have a boyfriend as far as she was concerned, and sex with anybody else was not even on the horizon.

But cue an emotional farewell with Sherlock Holmes on Christmas Eve. She recalled having the fleeting thought upon arriving in Edinburgh that she should get the morning after pill. But how? From where? Visit a GP on Christmas Day? She had easily dismissed that idea, thinking there was only a slim chance she could get pregnant. Why had she thought that? What kind of stupid reasoning had entered her mind on that day? And now here she was paying the price for such an ignorant decision.

Suddenly her world had tilted again. He would never leave her heart, and now, it seemed, a small part of him had taken hold and would spiral her life out of control once more.

.

**-END OF SERIES 3-**


	71. Miss Me?

Rose took a seat in the tutorial room with her student peers around the cluster of desks toward the front. She sat alongside Indira and Alice, with Andrew and Laura sitting behind them. Heather, another student assigned to their tutorial group, was notoriously late, and her usual chair sat accusingly empty. Brian, their tutor, remained where he was, behind the desk at the front. He was texting on his phone with the excuse that he wouldn't start until Heather arrived.

Alice started quizzing Rose about the London transport system, while Indira had twisted around and was attempting to read the same newspaper article as Andrew and Laura.

"Conspiracy, obviously," Laura declared, leaning back in her seat and crossing her arms in front of her, clearly not impressed.

"I think he was a spy, me-sel'," Andrew added.

"Charles Magnussen..." Brian boomed, startling Rose in the process—although he had pronounced 'Magnussen' as 'Majnussen.' "…was a manipulative, power-hungry monster, if you believe the write-up in _Estate5_ … let's see." He swivelled in his chair, then began rifling through his briefcase. His further commentary was lost on Rose as she immediately turned and fixed her gaze on the paper in front of the others, an uncomfortable churning in her gut.

"Have you finished?" she asked in as casual a tone as she could manage, her fingers poised on the edge of the paper. She waited until Andrew lifted his elbows from the bottom of the page, then drew the newspaper toward herself.

The students and their tutor were all talking over one another, eager to put forward their own theories about—and this had now become apparent to Rose—Charles Augustus Magnussen's death.

Rose's heart drummed in her chest as her eyes quickly scanned the article before she forced herself to slow down and begin from the top of the page. The conversation around her became a distant hum.

How could she have not heard about this? Magnussen had been shot in his own home on Christmas Day! That news would've been everywhere. Rose knew where she was during that period—somewhere between a drunken haze and a snivelling wreck. And forget about discussion on current affairs around her extended family. Their little corner of the world was all they could see and were concerned about—whether or not Harriet's boyfriend had chucked in his trade and spent too much time at the pub; should Henderson open his corner store earlier than 11am on a Sunday; or if they, as a family, should boycott the Asian restaurant three blocks away since Izzy had come away with food poisoning, Saturday last. With Rose intent on hiding away from the world, she had inadvertently become one of them.

By the time uni had started, the news had obviously become stale. Rose submerged herself in the culture of the place, delighting in getting to participate in intelligent conversations; able to get away from her cousins and the ever-present Adrian, the all-round handyman. The handsome handyman. And charming. And totally off limits.

The newspaper article told her that investigations into his death had at last revealed that Magnussen was attempting to buy government intelligence, top-secret information, uncovered in a sting operation that had been planned for months. A junior security services officer had erroneously thought Magnussen was reaching into his jacket for a weapon, which would've endangered the lives of the intelligence officers standing in close proximity, and the 'over-eager squaddie,' one social commentator had remarked, had taken the shot that had proved instantly fatal for the media giant.

Rose exhaled deeply, feeling light-headed. Her vision began to blur and she turned and reached for her handbag on the floor beside her chair.

"…and blackmailed senior government officials," Rose heard, as she delved into her bag for a bottle of water. Brian was reading from his _Estate5_ article at the same time that Indira and Andrew were debating the ethics of media outlets.

Rose needed air. There was no mention of Sherlock in the newspaper article, and she desperately needed to find further information. She wanted to google the news as it had come to hand since Christmas. To do that, she needed privacy and quiet.

"Just filling this," she said to no one in particular as she made a beeline for the door, clutching her full water bottle.

On Christmas Eve, Sherlock had told her he had something planned regarding Magnussen and his vaults. He'd pleaded with her not to leave and to wait until the new year. Surely this meant he'd been the mastermind behind the sting operation. And now Magnussen was dead. But what about the vaults Sherlock had mentioned? Had government officials meticulously combed through every single document? Would they have found anything relating to her and John Garvie? Or had Sherlock destroyed them like he said he was going to?

Rose locked herself in a toilet cubicle and sank down on the lid of the toilet. On her phone, she searched news items for "Sherlock Holmes" and "Magnussen," but they were never mentioned in any of the same pieces. The earlier articles about Magnussen's fate discussed the possibility of another terrorist attack, and people speculated whether or not this was related to the attack in Paris. This discussion had filtered into Rose's New Year haze, she remembered that, but at the time she obviously hadn't known the stories related to Charles Augustus Magnussen.

And if Sherlock had been involved, then his participation had been kept under wraps. This didn't make Rose feel any better. The scandalous information may still be out there.

But she couldn't do anything about it right now. Rose stood and left the toilet cubicle. Contacting Sherlock Holmes was definitely not an option. It'd been over a month since she had last seen him. Rose reflexively touched a hand to her lower abdomen. She knew she did that every time she wistfully thought of Sherlock. Her belly only felt rounded beneath her flat palm, with nothing visually detectable through her loose clothing. She was almost eight weeks, and had deemed it too early to announce her condition to the world—or at least her family. Not until she was past the first trimester, anyway, she had decided.

As Rose washed her hands in the bathroom basin, Heather swanned in.

"Oo-er," the willowy, raven-haired, full-figured student said to Rose. "I'm glad I'm not the only one who's late."

"We haven't started yet," Rose reassured her.

Heather re-applied bright red lipstick, smacked her lips together, then turned to leave.

"Now you're the last one!" she said gleefully before she exited.

"I've already—" Rose began. Oh, who cared anyway.

Rose quite often led discussions and Brian usually hung onto her every word.

"Now, listen to Rose-Mary," he'd boom, mispronouncing her name _every time._ He'd check her name off his list by saying, _Rose-Mary Sulford_ ; anunciating each syllable as if he were sampling tasty morsels.

She wasn't so concerned about being late for the tutorial just this once. She was obviously the star pupil, but she didn't feel quite so composed yet, and definitely not ready to discuss what was needed for them to conduct their own mock risk assessment. The scenario adapted from a real case had intrigued Rose, but she wasn't in the right frame of mind at the minute.

Apart from the delivery of the single red rose on New Year's Day—her birthday—she hadn't heard from Sherlock either. She half-expected him to pay her a visit at some stage. The thought thrilled her, until she remembered she had decided to carry on her life without him. It was during her sensible times she was sort of glad Sherlock was also getting on with his life. Or was he?

One night, during one of her depressive "what am I going to do now that I'm having a baby?" panic attacks, she had googled Sherlock and was both horrified and curious to find he had created a Twitter account. She spent hours trawling through his tweets, half-thinking it wasn't really him, it couldn't possibly be, until she read some that definitely sounded like his kind of intolerant insult. Followers were either sycophantic fans, would-be clients, or argumentative trolls. He'd give them all the same treatment—succinctly solving their problems with a cursory look at their Twitter profiles, or insulting them for wasting his time. He usually ignored the adoring fans and the smart-arse trolls.

_#221BringIt!_ was the first hashtag she saw, and she almost burst into laughter. Drumming up business, was he?

Rose had a Twitter account, and she had never used it except to follow a couple of health professionals and psychology-related organisations. That evening, she had followed Sherlock Holmes, and hoped she'd remain anonymous in the sea of thousands of followers he had accumulated. She didn't use her real name—not all of it, anyway. _Sulnyd_. Was that obscure enough? She had no profile photo and had only listed _Edinburgh_ as her location. She checked her feed now and again. It was dizzying, the amount of tweets Sherlock produced in reply to his followers. She gave up trying to follow the threads of conversations on his profile. He was busy. And that was nice.

But Rose wanted to know if Magnussen's unattended vaults were still going to cause a problem for her. Should she reach out to Sherlock?

Rose leant against the bathroom countertop and tapped the edge of her phone against her forehead. False bravado and frivolity surged through her in equal measure. She quickly opened her Twitter app and began typing. She hit the _Tweet_ button before she had time to reconsider.

_Oh, God._

She quickly read back what she'd tweeted to Sherlock, then closed the app before leaving the bathroom.

_Please help. Someone has damning info about me. DM for details._

How lame. He probably won't even look at it, she thought as she hurried along the corridor toward the tutorial room. Her plea for help wouldn't even stand out among the hundreds he must receive every day, surely. But before she entered the room, she quickly changed her profile to display _United Kingdom_ as her location, instead of _Edinburgh_.

But why? she thought. Was she really going to remain anonymous, or was she actually going to ask Sherlock specifically about Magnussen's vaults and either give away her identity or pique his interest? But Magnussen could've blackmailed hundreds of people. She could be anyone.

Well, she'd cross that bridge when she came to it: if Sherlock Holmes actually noticed her dull request and felt compelled to respond to it with anything other than a sarcastic quip.

Rose settled into her seat, relieved her group had begun discussing the required reading that had been assigned on Monday, and were making notes on the questions that had to be answered and submitted by Saturday, midnight. Her mind quickly turned to where it was meant to be.

After their session had ended, Rose accepted Indira's invitation to have coffee with her and Alice before their Criminal Justice lecture. They had already met up on a couple of occasions previously, and Rose found their company enjoyable, although they were quite a bit younger than her. They both had grown up in Edinburgh, so Rose was glad to receive insight into the city in exchange for her thoughts on whatever their assigned readings were for the week and her stories about living in London.

As they crossed the concourse in the direction of the on-campus Starbucks, Rose checked her phone. Her heart quickened when she saw she had a notification on her little-used Twitter account.

She stopped dead in her tracks, both Alice and Indira not noticing as they continued walking and talking. She had received a direct message from Sherlock's Twitter account.

_Hello, Rose. Magnussen's vaults have been destroyed. –SH x_


	72. Aware of Your Existence

"Another one solved, then?" John asked as Sherlock stood in the middle of the rug and gazed thoughtfully into space after hitting _Send_ on his message to Rose.

"Hmm?" he asked distractedly, hearing John's words but not really registering the question.

"A case," John replied. "Solved it? You should keep a count. Beans in a jar or something. Jelly beans."

"What on earth are you talking about?"

John just shook his head and chuckled to himself. He continued perusing the newspaper from his position on the sofa. After a moment, he said, "Dimmock's been given another case." John didn't look up at his former flatmate; his eyes remained on the printed page.

Sherlock continued ignoring the doctor. He wasn't interested in which Scotland Yard D.I. was flavour of the month. He assisted them all equally, if the cases were intriguing enough. It was no longer just Giles Lestrade who felt comfortable approaching the famous Consulting Detective.

Sherlock sank down into his armchair and wondered if this was now another sign he should really make the journey north to see Rose. She had contacted him.

He didn't believe in signs. Absolute rubbish. But he knew he'd been putting off reconnecting with her since he'd been _let off the hook_ —as stated by the unimpressed Lady Smallwood—for ridding England of yet another dragon. His enthusiasm on the tarmac and confidence in the idea that he could just hightail it to Edinburgh and reconcile with Rose at any time had waned considerably. Besides, he'd been high at the time. What had he been thinking?

Sober now for just on a month, Sherlock had buried himself in his work. He was waiting for Moriarty's legacy to reveal itself. Of course Moriarty was dead. Of that there was no question. Sherlock had taken an overdose to prove it. So why not take the time to visit Rose?

Because she'd broken up with him, that's why. Because she'd told him a lie to get him to push her away. Because she'd moved as far away from him as possible.

Why did she ask for his help, then?

Obvious.

John Watson stretched and yawned widely. He stood and announced his impending departure since Sherlock had no interesting cases this morning that would have them running around London, the blood pumping through their veins.

"Mary and Rosie should be back from the clinic," John added, before grabbing his coat.

"Yes, well," Sherlock said, not at all feeling guilty nor responsible for the lethargy of London's criminals today. Instead, he felt a familiar fluttering in his stomach. _She_ had contacted _him._ He rose from his seat as well, heaving a sigh as he did so. "I might head north. Potential case up there. Should be a couple of days at most."

"Oh?"

He'd piqued John's interest, but Sherlock knew the ex-army doctor and new parent had too many responsibilities here. He'd require more notice if he was going to join Sherlock on an overnight case.

"Probably nothing," Sherlock lied. "Probably boring." He gave John a weak smile. "You know Northerners." So he was doing this then. Going to see Rose.

"Uh. Yeah," John said, deflating a little. He shrugged on his jacket and added, "Well, tell me about it when you get back."

Sherlock hummed non-commitedly, then strode toward the back of the flat while John's footsteps thundered on the stairwell. Sherlock paused in the doorway to his bedroom. No. He wouldn't pack. That would require too much fore-thought and would give him the false assumption that he'd be welcome to stay. He should just go. Drop in. No suitcase, no pre-booked tickets. Hightail it to Edinburgh. That had been his original plan.

Naturally, Rose making contact with him had been the more obvious sign that he should see her. The less obvious sign was the new Twitter follower he'd acquired a fortnight ago, who he was sure was Rose. _Suspected_ was Rose.

Hoped.

And now a request for help from her.

He'd agonised over adding the 'x' to his initials when signing off on the message to Rose. Just an innocent little letter that was supposed to tell Rose volumes about his _feelings_ for her.

Other signs that Rose should be in his life were John bringing her up in casual conversation, and of course, the revelation about his Goddaughter's name.

_Rosamund._

Even before Molly had offered her explanation at the Christening, Sherlock's mind had already retrieved the relevant Latin translation at lightning speed, discarding the name's germanic origins.

_rosa mundi - Rose of the world._

_My_ world, he had thought at the time.

" _Rosie for short,_ " Molly had added, causing another memory trigger for Sherlock. He'd paused in his rapid typing during the Christening to retrieve several more memories from his Mind Palace. He had always called Rose _Rosie_ whenever he was high. His inhibitions were lower then, and he spoke her name with great affection. And love.

"You know we didn't name our daughter after…" John had awkwardly said to Sherlock at the drinks and nibbles thing after the Christening.

"Clearly," Sherlock said, looking away and blinking self-consciously.

"Named after someone in Mary's family, apparently," John continued. "I'm sure she explained it to me. Not that I can recall. Perhaps I wasn't really listening."

"Like I'm doing now," Sherlock murmured.

"So… er…" John began, and then he cleared his throat. Always a signal he was entering into uncomfortable subject matter territory. Sherlock inhaled deeply. "W-what happened to Rose?" John asked. "She just sort of disappeared off the face of the earth after you returned to hospital. In sickness and in health didn't apply?"

Sherlock shot John a look. "We exchanged no such vows. She's simply not in the picture anymore. And I'd appreciate it if you never mentioned her to me again. Isn't there cake? You promised me cake."

And Sherlock had stalked off, leaving John to shuffle his feet and clear his throat once again.

Before he could visit Rose, Sherlock needed to know where she resided, if she was working and whether or not she had enrolled in any courses at one of the universities. He wasn't as familiar with Edinburgh as he was with London. He'd rather leave his city with this information already in hand, rather than trying to retrieve it while he was navigating unfamiliar streets.

He could've asked his brother. If Mycroft had done his bidding on New Year's Day, the British Government would've obtained a residential address for the delivery of a single red rose to Rosemarie Sulford. But practically admitting to his older sibling that Rose was somebody Sherlock cared for, before being sent on a suicide mission, was a different scenario to implying the same on an ordinary day like today.

So, for this exercise, Sherlock required the services of his favourite hacker. He grabbed a cab outside 221B and settled into the back seat.

"Frogger," Sherlock said into his phone, once he'd given the cabbie the address in East London. "I'm on my way over. What topping would you like on your pizza?" He recalled the time he was required to pick onion slices from the top of Frogger's pizza. Frogger only enjoyed the flavour provided by the onion, apparently. He didn't like to actually eat the slices.

"Mister 'olmes," the hacker replied. "You're not at the pizza joint now are you? Because I've moved."

This came as a surprise to Sherlock. His personal I.T. consultant always gave the impression he was a permanent fixture in his basement flat on Commercial Street.

"Moved?"

"Uh. Yeah. I had to. You'll see why when you get 'ere. I'll text you the address. And Mister 'olmes… don't worry about the pizza. I'm on a diet."

Sherlock didn't like things to change. It threw him off his game. Still, Frogger's new residence in Lambeth was in a marginally more pleasant part of the city, and the detective assumed he wouldn't feel as if he had to disinfect himself after each visit. His last trip to the basement flat was when he was investigating John Garvie, and had obtained a copy of the MP's electronic diary. Sherlock's heart grew heavy at the thought of everything that had occurred afterwards.

John Garvie had done as requested. He'd resigned from the parliamentary committee. But everything seemed to go downhill after that.

"All right, Mister 'olmes?"

"Frogger."

The hacker ushered Sherlock inside the modest Victorian terraced cottage.

"Ah… nice," Sherlock said, since Frogger was looking at him expectantly.

"New beginnings," said Frogger.

Sherlock stifled a sigh. "Really?" He raised his eyebrows in mock interest.

"Yeah, and… ah…"

Sherlock frowned. This wouldn't be good.

"So, I'm trying to adopt a more professional approach. No more pizza on the job."

"On the job?"

"Grease on the keyboard."

"Okay." Sherlock folded his hands behind his back and looked about him.

"And… ah…" Frogger went on. _Good God_ , thought Sherlock. _What now?_ "Mister 'olmes, if you don't mind…"

"What?"

"New beginnings, and all that… I don't go by my nickname anymore. It was one I had as a kid, you know, because of the game… Frogger."

"Yes," said Sherlock a tad impatiently.

"So, I go by my real name now." The hacker formerly known as Frogger stuck out his hand and said, "Craig."

Sherlock looked at the proffered hand. Surely not. But… needs must. He returned Frogg…er… _Craig's_ handshake, and decided to play nicely.

"Sherlock," he replied.

Craig's face lit up.

"Really?"

"What do you mean, _'Really_?'" Sherlock asked. "Surely you know by now that I'm Sherlock Holmes."

"Of course I do, Mist…ah… _Sherlock._ It's just that I never thought I'd get to call you by your first name."

Sherlock gave Craig one of his broad, fake smiles. "New beginnings," he said. "We're on a first name basis now… _Craig._ "

Craig pumped Sherlock's hand enthusiastically and said, "Nice to meet you, Sherlock."

Thankfully their game-playing was short-lived, with Sherlock internally congratulating himself for being slightly less of the arsehole he used to be. Craig gestured toward an open door, beyond which Sherlock could see the darkened den full of the equipment he usually associated with his geeky service provider. The familiar sight was a welcome relief after all of Craig's 'new beginnings' nonsense.

"Today I'm after—" Sherlock began, before he was distracted by movement toward his left. "You have a dog," he said, as an enormous brown beast slinked out from behind a sofa. _And not just any dog._

"Sherlock 'olmes, meet Toby," Craig announced proudly. "Toby, this is Sherlock." Sherlock furrowed his brow, thinking Craig's second introduction was highly unnecessary. "He's—"

"A bloodhound," finished Sherlock, speaking with faint reverence in his voice.

"Just you wait til you see what he can do," Craig said.

But Sherlock's mind was already buzzing with a multitude of ideas.

"Show me."

* * *

Rose quickly fumbled for her umbrella while poised on the top step of the bus.

_Please work this time, you fucking useless fucker._

After the bus pulled up at the kerb, she alighted and quickly pushed open the umbrella. Thankfully, it functioned perfectly. Rose trudged the fifty metres toward her cousin's front gate, her head bowed and silently hoping _just this once_ she wouldn't receive the usual comments from neighbours.

"Cold enough for you, love?"

Ah, there it was.

Rose smiled resignedly at Mrs G from number twenty-three. Mr G passed her by, with his usual greeting, "Evenin,' Miss Rosemarie" on his way to the corner shop for a packet of cigarettes for Mrs G—who routinely gave up smoking every Monday.

London may be busier, she may pass more people on her way home, but Edinburgh—or at least Craigleith Hill—forced Rose to interact with more people than she liked to at the end of a mentally exhausting day.

 _There goes Rosemarie,_ they'd say, clucking their tongues. _She's a smart one. Reading books all day, then coming home and reading more books. What kind of life is that for a young lass?_

A car passed her, coming from the other direction. Before it reached her, the driver dipped their headlights. Rose gave them a quick wave. She didn't recognise the car, nor the driver in the dark and the pouring rain, but she knew she ought to. It was somebody who knew her anyway. On a clear evening, they'd wind down their _windae_ and call out, "Headin' home, Rosemarie?"

Yes, indeed, she was.

Ten metres to go. The rain brought with it a biting cold that rattled Rose's bones.

She plunged her gloved hand into her bag and rummaged around for her keys. Five metres.

A motorcycle slowed up beside her, stopping at the kerb in front of the house just past her cousins'. It was a good thing Rose could turn into their garden now. She wouldn't have to make small talk with this tall stranger in black motorcycle leathers about the weather while they were standing in it. But it looked like the Fergusons were going to get an evening visitor.

The other day, Rose got trapped for five minutes talking to old Mrs Mack across the road, who told her she shouldn't stay out in the rain because "it's not like London rain, y'know." (It was exactly like London rain).

Rose pushed her key into the lock in the wooden gate that ran alongside the house, thankful for the bit of light provided by the coach lamp on the porch. Her cousin's place was perched at the top of a hilly block, that sloped sharply toward the back. Rose's basement flat opened out onto a tiny terrace at the rear of the house, and she had to walk downhill beside the house to get around to the back. The tiles on the terrace were going to be slick and dangerous tonight.

She locked the gate behind her and breathed a sigh of relief. Only one more possible social engagement now. If Rose had left the latch unlocked on the door that led up into her cousin Pippa's kitchen, there was a good chance Pippa would be standing in Rose's own tiny kitchen with a plate of food. Food was definitely welcome. Company, less so.

"Oh, I made so much," Pippa would say innocently. "So, I've brought some for ye tae have for supper. No point it going tae waste." And then she'd put the kettle on and precede to tell Rose all about her day. And Rose automatically said all the right things.

Inadvertent therapist, again.

Fortunately, there was no sign of Pippa today. As Rose closed the French doors behind her, and switched on the living area light, she glanced over to the internal door. She'd latched it! Rose exhaled and felt the tension leaving her body. Well thank bloody Christ for that.

Her usual coming home routine would commence with trying to remove her wet coat while simultaneously filling the kettle. She thought it would finish boiling by the time she had removed the last of her damp items.

After removing her boots, she glanced up toward the kitchen window, thinking she saw movement outside. It was almost impossible to tell with the light on inside, and the winter causing the sun to set early outside. The window was located at the top of the path, so you'd always see your visitor's legs in the daylight before they descended the path, rounded the corner and knocked on the door.

Dammit!

But Pippa wouldn't go out in the rain and in the dark. She'd knock on the internal door, unless she'd sent her husband Luke out on an errand. But Rose was sure she hadn't heard the wooden gate swing shut.

She turned toward the French doors at the same time that a dark figure rapped on the glass.

Rose's heart skipped a beat when she saw it was the motorcyclist. He still wore his helmet, but funnily enough, he gave her a friendly little wave when he saw her standing over by the kitchen sink. Rose stared at him blankly. He raised the visor on his helmet, as if that would help. She couldn't make out any features through the glass and in the blackness of the night. The weak outdoor lighting was ineffective in the rain. She remained staring at him, her brow furrowed in confusion.

The biker pointed his two gloved index fingers at his own face. Rose stifled a laugh and walked toward the doors. Bloody Ade. Did he buy himself a bike?

Rose pulled the door open, the beginnings of a smile on her face as the biker reached up and pulled his helmet over his head.

"Didn't you recognise me?" said Sherlock Holmes, ruffling out his curls with a gloved hand. "Bit dark out here, I s'pose. Not safe."

Rose froze, her mouth agape. How did he…? What was he…? She'd only tweeted him this morning. Her insides began to churn monstrously.

"Did you…" she stammered. "Did you climb over the gate?"

"Of course I did. You locked it. Bit inconvenient."

"Most people ring the front doorbell."

"Most people aren't me. And I'm not supposed to let myself be seen in your company. Remember? Aren't you going to let me in?"

Rose stood to one side, giving Sherlock room to enter her flat. He quickly glanced around before placing his motorbike helmet on the small dining table. Water droplets slid down the smooth surface and pooled on the tablecloth around the helmet. Rose took that moment while his back was to her to rake her eyes down his leather-clad body. Sherlock Holmes. In biker leather. And boots.

_God help me._

"Looks a bit different to the council specs," he said.

"Sorry?"

"Were you putting the kettle on?"

Sherlock made his way over to the kitchen sink, while Rose closed the front door, then hastily drew the thick curtains across.

"Sherlock—"

"You didn't reply to my message," he said, while he busied himself with the tea things. "I wanted to make sure you had no further concerns."

"What message?" she asked, folding her arms in front of her.

Sherlock threw her a glance, a tiny smile playing on his lips.

"Oh, come on, Rose," he said. He turned his back on her again and heaped sugar into one of the mugs. Hopefully, his. He began pouring the water from the kettle as he spoke. " _Sulnyd?_ Bit obvious. Sulford. New Year's Day. Your birthday. Did you get the rose, by the way?"

"Yes. Thank you."

Her throat felt constricted and her head just a little dizzy in his larger than life presence.

Sherlock brought their tea over to the coffee table in front of the two-seater sofa and single armchair. Rose found herself seated in her favourite armchair, tea in hand, as Sherlock arranged logs inside the fire place while he told her his observations regarding her neighbours. Nothing she didn't already know. Had he deduced all that from spending two minutes in the street?

Sherlock had removed his jacket, revealing a dark grey t-shirt sporting the artwork of a rock star's album cover, but Rose couldn't stop her eyes drifting to the leather jeans and what was clad inside.

Sherlock sank onto the sofa with a satisfied sigh as the room was bathed in a warm glow from the fire. Rose sipped her tea, watching curiously as Sherlock grasped the end of his boot.

"Do you mind?" he asked.

"No. Go ahead."

Sherlock pulled off his boots one by one and dropped them to the floor beside the coffee table. He then grabbed his tea, leant back into the sofa and propped his legs up onto the coffee table. He flexed his toes, still clad in socks.

In the space of five minutes, Sherlock Holmes had become part of the furniture once again.

He held his cup of tea in one hand and his phone in the other, both hands resting across his chest; he dropped his head to the back of the sofa and closed his eyes. His phone buzzed with what Rose assumed was a message. Or a tweet for Sherlock Holmes.

Didn't he even know how strange and unexpected this encounter was?

"Are you all right?" Rose asked.

"Yes," he drawled, without opening his eyes. "Just tired. I've had a long ride."

"From where?"

"Newcastle."

Sherlock opened his eyes and turned his head toward Rose. There was a hint of mischief gracing his features.

"I took the train to Newcastle, bought myself a motorbike, and rode the rest of the way here. Beautiful scenery. I've hired a storage facility to keep the bike in when I'm not here. And other stuff. Clothes, perhaps. Can't go around wearing this all day long."

He closed his eyes again and his phone buzzed once more, which he ignored.

Rose sat up straighter in her chair, then leant forward, placing her mug on the table. Sherlock was behaving as if they both existed in two different realities. And from a psychologist's perspective, that wasn't necesssarily a good thing. She had to take the gentle approach.

"Sherlock," she said tentatively.

"Mmm?"

"Do you remember the last time we spoke?"

"Twitter. This morning."

"No…" A noisy exhale escaped her before Rose thought to stifle it. If he thought she hadn't ended their relationship on Christmas Eve, this wasn't going to be easy. "Not on Twitter," she said calmly. "In person."

Sherlock's eyes snapped open and then he repositioned himself on the sofa, dropping his feet to the floor. He placed his tea on the table.

He drew in his own, preparatory breath—one that usually signalled to Rose that Sherlock was about to give her an earful.

"Look, Rose. I know you think I'm suffering from the delusion we're still a couple, but I'm not. I know you broke up with me. I know you said your goodbyes when you were leaving London. But it was a _dishonest_ goodbye. You know that as well as I do. Your tweet…" He waved his phone at her. "Hardly anonymous. You knew you wouldn't be. Not to me anyway. You changed the location on your profile at the last minute, but I saw it the instant you followed me."

"You—"

"I check the profile of every new follower. I find the ones who remain silent are the most intriguing. But _Sulnyd_? An obvious giveaway. You follow dull health professionals, and then you followed me. _Sherlock Holmes_. The most exciting Twitter account since the Camden Garrotter. And on the morning the papers finally reported the outcome of the investigation into Magnussen's death, you felt compelled to reach out to me. Obviously you were concerned about the fate of his secret files. But subconsciously, Rose—and put this in your journal of psychological anecdotes—it wasn't a cry for help, but a love letter to me."

Rose's jaw fell open. But Sherlock continued on, unabated.

"There's a private rehabilitation centre close to the border. Castle _Something."_ He waved a hand, immediately dismissing the importance of the name. "I'm booked in this weekend. I'm an addict. Everybody knows that; it was in the papers. Lovely facilities on fifty acres." He shrugged. "Apparently. I've never stepped foot inside the place. But upon receiving a generous donation from me, they're happy to have me on their books. So, that's my cover story for travelling to Scotland on a semi-regular basis. Because this…" And he waved a hand between them. "…needs addressing."

Rose's breath shuddered on the way out and she felt her cheeks beginning to flush. She grasped the arms of her chair and pushed herself out of it.

"No," she said, with a tiny shake of her head. Sherlock looked up at her, his eyes widening minutely in interest. "You don't get to _deduce_ your way into my life again." Rose side-stepped the sofa and escaped the living area. Not that there was much of a separation between the kitchen, dining and living areas. "I've got plans for my life," she told Sherlock as he twisted around to follow her movements. "And you're definitely not a part of it."

Rose folded her arms in front of her, resisting the urge to run a hand over her lower abdomen. She secretly hoped Sherlock would deduce her pregnancy. Why hadn't he noticed? He was Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock left the sofa and made his way over to Rose. She held her breath and her muscles tensed. He seemed taller than she remembered as he loomed closer.

"I know you have plans. You've made a life for yourself here, with your family, who are only too keen to welcome you back into the fold. They've put a roof over your head, and…" His eyes quickly took in Rose's body. "…feed you. A lot, actually." _What the fuck?_ "But, Rose…" _He thinks I got fat!_ Sherlock narrowed the gap between them—close enough for Rose to smell his aftershave. "This can work, now. I'll hardly be here for anybody to notice. And I won't be here often enough to annoy you." A smile played on his lips and he reached for her and lightly held her arms. The smile faded just as quickly. "You broke my heart." Rose's own heart twinged in sympathy. "And I tried to ignore what that felt like; I buried myself in my work—it's the best antidote to sorrow—but this," he said, holding her a little more firmly, "should never be ignored." Rose's eyes began to fill with tears. "I know you love me," he continued, his voice fraying around the edges. "Just give me… a day…"

"Sherlock," Rose choked out.

"Twenty-four hours."

"What?" she asked faintly.

"Give me twenty-four hours in your company. And after that, even if you don't change your mind, at least it'll be an honest goodbye." Sherlock's own grey eyes were glistening. Rose found herself lost in them and the first of her tears fell freely. "Please, Rose," he whispered.

Rose unfolded her arms and brought her hands to Sherlock's chest as she dropped her gaze. A lump had formed in her throat and she couldn't repond for a moment. Sherlock fully banded his arms around her and rested his chin on the top of her bowed head.

An _honest_ goodbye. That's what he'd asked for. And still Rose couldn't give it to him. Could she, though, let him stay for a night and a day, and then tell him she hadn't changed her mind? She couldn't give him an honest goodbye, because she wouldn't tell him about her pregnancy. She couldn't hold that over him, couldn't add that encumbrance to his life. The responsibility of a child wasn't a part of his plans, in flitting in and out of her life.

But this would be a nicer way to end their relationship, in contrast to that horrible time in the drug den on Christmas Eve.

Rose lifted her gaze, and said, "I did love you."

"I know."

"And I still do."

"I know."

She searched Sherlock's eyes, hoping that after a day in his company, she'd have the strength to say goodbye.

Sherlock gave her a faint, encouraging smile.

"Twenty-four hours," she said.

"The best twenty-four hours of your life."

His smile broadened and one hand found the small of her back. He pressed her in close. Rose still felt light-headed. Was she going to do this then—spend a night in his embrace?

"And you'll respect my wishes after that?" she asked.

Sherlock silently nodded, his smile still in place.

Most of the air had left Rose's lungs, but she still managed to say, "Okay."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you may have noticed, Frogger the Hacker, who I introduced in the last series (Ch. 46 And I Further Deduce), has morphed into T6T's Craig the Hacker. I hope you don't mind. He seemed to fit perfectly!
> 
> In case you're wondering, these chapters are slotted in just after the Christening scene in T6T, but before Sherlock is talking to Rosie and she throws her rattle at him. I'm assuming that one takes place a couple of months later, when she's a bit older and can sit up a bit.
> 
> Twenty-four hours for Sherlock! Will he manage to convince Rose? Will Rose tell him she's pregnant?


	73. Why Don't We Just Enjoy the Moment

Sherlock glanced up as Rose left the bathroom, towel-drying her hair. She met his gaze and he exchanged smiles with her before checking the recipe for omelettes on his phone again. Perfect, he thought, taking the spatula and gently folding the one he was cooking in the frying pan.

"Are you all right with that?" Rose asked as she came up beside him. "Smells amazing."

"Child's play."

"So why are you looking at a recipe?"

"Because I've never cooked an omelette before."

"You're kidding." Rose continued drying her hair as she peered into the pan. "What do you cook, then?"

"I rarely cook. But how hard can it be?" He held up his phone and waved it at Rose.

"Well, I can't fault that," she said, before making her way to the bedroom.

"This one's yours," Sherlock called to her.

"I'll just be a minute."

Sherlock deftly plated Rose's omelette so that it looked exactly like the picture on the recipe, minus the sprinkling of basil leaves. He set Rose's dinner on the dining table beside her mountain of textbooks. He then grabbed the frying pan and dropped it into the sink full of water.

"Aren't you having one?" Rose asked as she made her way to the table. She was now dressed in a t-shirt and trackpants.

"I've…" Sherlock gestured toward the rubbish bin as he spoke, then he cleared his throat. "…been sampling."

Experimenting, was the correct word. Apparently it took four attempts to get it right (why give up after three?) and with three eggs per omelette, there were now no eggs left for his own meal.

"I won't eat all this," Rose said, taking a mouthful and pushing her plate toward the centre of the table. "Oh, it's gorgeous!" she added while chewing and delicately covering her mouth with a hand.

Sherlock grabbed another fork from the cutlery drawer and sat opposite Rose. Well, it wouldn't hurt to sample a properly made omelette, and besides, he was starving.

"Oh, I'm sorry, how rude," Rose said, closing up the textbook that had caught her attention.

"No, you keep reading. I did say I'd exist around you and your needs this evening."

He gave her an encouraging smile before Rose's gaze was drawn to the book once more. Sherlock was grateful for the distraction. He stole one more piece of omelette and then drifted toward the living area.

He didn't know how he was going to make this the best twenty-four hours Rose had ever experienced. He just wanted to be near her again. Exist how they used to, with Sherlock bringing her cups of tea so she could continue studying, and she would cuddle up on the sofa with him at some stage later in the evening. That was all he wanted. But tension radiated from Rose in waves. She'd abruptly ended their kiss earlier, awkwardly suggesting they eat dinner soon and then they could talk, but first, she needed to have a shower and later she had a lot of studying to do.

Sherlock didn't mind that at all, and had even volunteered to cook— _cook_!—dinner for them both so Rose could get on with whatever she needed to do. But he only had twenty-four hours. How could he make Rose relax enough around him to not only enjoy his company but want to be in a relationship with him again?

Sherlock grabbed the remote control and turned on the telly—just like he used to do. He quickly lowered the volume and listened to the intermittent clattering of cutlery as Rose ate and studied. When all became quiet from her direction, he asked, "What are you reading?" He already knew what she was reading, but he couldn't stand not interacting with her another minute.

Rose cleared her throat. Sherlock thought she was going to sigh in annoyance, but she rose from the table and brought both her textbook and notebook around to the living area. His heart lifted just a little.

" _The_ _Strengths and Weaknesses of Unstructured Clinical Discretion…_ in violence risk assessment," she replied, before sinking down into the armchair beside Sherlock.

"Oh. Interesting."

Rose glanced up at Sherlock and a corner of her mouth lifted. He didn't think it sounded interesting, but she was trying to show she appreciated the effort he was making.

"It is, actually," she said, with a tiny twinkle in her eye.

"How so?"

Sherlock didn't really want to know, but he was keen to keep Rose talking. Perhaps if the subject matter was something she was interested in, she may begin to relax in his company.

Rose explained to Sherlock about the different methods used in determining whether or not a violent offender was at risk for committing another violent act in the near future. She talked about taking a historical analysis of the offender—whether there had been a history of violence and/or antisocial behaviour within their family, as a child, an adolescent, or an adult; what relationships they had with other people, both intimate and non-intimate; whether or not they had any mental disorders; how were they employed; did they have a substance abuse problem, and on and on she went, frequently flipping backwards and forwards through her textbook to recount and summarise the hundreds of pages she'd been studying.

As words like "personality disorder" and "victimisation and childhood trauma" echoed around him, Sherlock's cheeks began to burn and his insides churned. Reflections of water rippled through his mind and he suddenly found it difficult to breathe.

"We look at recent psychotic episodes," Rose continued, oblivious, as Sherlock drifted in and out of attentiveness. "And we have to consider the varying probabilities of the examinee committing a minor act of violence versus a serious act of violence. And of course there's…"

He was finally able to get his breathing under control by concentrating on the dancing flames within the fireplace, but he also found comfort in the enthusiasm with which Rose spoke, rather than the actual words she was uttering.

"You may find this interesting," he forced himself to say out loud with a faux-casualness. He coughed lightly then added, "Mycroft… my brother… told me about this."

"What's that?"

Sherlock briefly glanced at Rose; he wasn't able to maintain eye contact for long.

"An intelligence officer… he shot and killed an unarmed man—a man who routinely destroyed the lives of others without remorse or discernment. This officer—this _agent—_ used his own judgement about whether or not this man should be allowed to live one moment longer. But that's not the point…" Sherlock blinked a couple of times in the direction of the fireplace. Rose was sitting patiently and attentively, her book still open in her lap. What _was_ the point? Oh, yes. Violence risk assessment. "The intelligence community—well, a mere handful of representatives, actually—decided to send the agent to his death as a result, on a mission that would prove fatal after about six months."

Rose was silent for a moment, and Sherlock dared not look in her direction.

"As what?" she asked finally, and Sherlock noted the hint of disgust in her voice. "As punishment? Capital punishment? Without a trial?"

Sherlock inhaled deeply. He tried to force a smile to his face before he met Rose's gaze.

"No violence risk assessment there. This is a British Intelligence organisation, and one that isn't even formally recognised. It doesn't actually exist on paper. They are above and beyond and out of reach of any laws."

"Bullshit!"

Sherlock was taken aback by the ferocity of Rose's comment.

"This is the United Kingdom," she said, "in the twenty-first century. We don't have capital punishment anymore, not even for treason. The United Nations—"

"I know, Rose. This is intelligence community stuff. Spy versus spy. The dangers are apparent to all who play the game."

Rose paused, as if she was studying Sherlock's eyes, but thinking deeply about something else. Or was she?

"I don't condone murder," she went on, "but even the most heinous crimes in this country aren't met with a death sentence for the perpetrator. Was this agent even aware that his next mission meant he'd die?"

"Yes."

"And he was fine with that?"

Sherlock inhaled deeply, and then tried to calmly exhale before answering.

"He had resigned himself to his fate. Perhaps he even thought he deserved it. All hope was lost, and all that rubbish." Sherlock waved a flippant hand and still avoided Rose's gaze. "Perhaps he had nothing else to live for."

Sherlock knew Rose was staring at him. He could feel her eyes boring into him. Did she guess? _Come on, Rose. Make a deduction._

"Then why didn't he receive any counselling?" she said, her voice strained with emotion. "Because, in the end, it sounds like suicide."

Her statement triggered another ripple of remorse throughout Sherlock's body. Is that what it had been? He'd given up? Sherlock Holmes had resigned to die for what he had done. The enormity of his actions that day did take a toll on Sherlock's psyche. He'd shut down. Switched off. He was set to go off on that mission. Whether or not he would complete it was another question altogether. He knew there was also a likelihood he would find another way to die. On his own terms. And he'd possessed enough of Billy's special recipe to go out in style during the flight. He may never have touched down in Eastern Europe if Mycroft hadn't phoned him.

"I'm sorry, I've…" he began, as he grabbed a sofa cushion and plopped it at the end of the sofa by Rose's chair. "I've distracted you long enough." Sherlock stretched out, making himself comfortable facing the telly. "Just wanted to let you know about a circumstance under which your violence risk assessment didn't apply."

Rose remained curiously silent while Sherlock studied the programme on TV. The sound was almost inaudible, but he got by, where he could, by lip-reading. Eventually he did hear Rose sigh. She'd begun studying her book again. Sherlock could've kicked himself. Instead of participating in a conversation that would relax Rose, he'd made her tense and upset.

 _Idiot_.

Why had he brought up the subject in the first place? But was there a tiny glimmer of hope? Sometime during that conversation, Sherlock had the feeling Rose would be on his side. He would have her support, should he ever confess his crime to her. But not now. Not while he wasn't sure of her commitment to him. Perhaps one day he'd tell her about the day he'd shot and killed Charles Augustus Magnussen and had been condemned to death by his own brother. His chest expanded with the idea of unburdening himself. But today wasn't that day.

A loud bang sounded by his head. Rose had slammed her book shut.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I just can't let this go."

"S-sorry?" Sherlock asked, lifting his head from the cushion and looking up at Rose.

"This… this agent. Is he out there now? Is he dead already? When did this happen? Maybe we can do something about this… tell someone."

"Rose," Sherlock said, struggling to sit up once more. "What I've told you is top secret. I shouldn't have used classified information to make a point. We can't tell anybody. The British Intelligence comm—"

" _Intelligence!_ " Rose spat. "Now there's a contradiction in terms."

"Rose."

"A man has died. Two men, actually, and nobody knows the truth about what happened. And these _people_ in charge, probably take no resp—"

"He's alive."

"—for their actions." Rose furrowed her brow. "What do you mean? He hasn't gone yet? Or the mission hasn't finished?"

"The mission was called off," Sherlock replied. He bowed his head and raked a hand through his hair. "Another… mission came up. One that required his particular skillset. He was… _let_ _off the hook._ A slap on the wrist and he was free to go… well, so my brother said."

Rose's brow remained furrowed, but she looked off into the distance before slowly shaking her head.

"Perhaps when you've got your qualifications," Sherlock said, limply waving a hand at Rose's book, "I can get Mycroft to put you in touch with… the agent. You can assess him, maybe counsel him a bit…" Sherlock gave Rose a tiny smile. "Give him a reason to live a good life."

Rose's expression softened just a little, and a warmth spread through Sherlock. He offered Rose tea, and left the living area for the kitchen when she accepted.

Rose returned to the dining table while Sherlock was making their tea. He couldn't help feeling a little disappointed, but he could see she now had a lot of typing to do, so he retired to the sofa again once he'd delivered her tea. He continued his lip-reading of the television show.

He didn't know at what point he'd fallen asleep, but the next thing he knew he was being roused from a deep slumber with Rose's tiny kisses dotting his face. He was awake in an instant as her mouth brushed his, and he parted his lips to let her know of his desires.

With a tiny huff of a laugh, Rose drew back.

"You fell asleep," she said unnecessarily.

"But I'm awake now," Sherlock replied, his voice rough and full of longing.

He drew Rose back in, wondering what had prompted her affection. Had she studied him while he slept? If so, how long before she had felt the urge to kiss him?

Probably not worth pondering at the moment as a fierce arousal surged through him. Sherlock couldn't remember the last time he'd even had an erection, definitely not in all the time they'd been separated.

But Rose's hand was wandering, and her tongue insistent, demanding and urgent against his. Sherlock let out an involuntary moan. Rose drew back with chuckle. Her hand pressed hard against his groin and she whispered, "Oh, you _are_ awake."

Suddenly, she was away from him, heading toward her bedroom and looking suggestively over her shoulder. Sherlock was up and out of the sofa in an instant as Rose parted the double sliding doors that led to her room. She clucked her tongue as they both felt the sudden drop in temperature.

"I usually keep these doors open," she said, waving toward the fireplace. "There isn't any heating in here."

Well, needs must, and Sherlock was quick to offer solutions under desperate circumstances. They pulled the quilt and pillows from Rose's bed, and arranged them on the floor in front of the fireplace. Rose was playful and teasing, and Sherlock found her demeanour a little disconcerting.

"Hurry up," she said, and by the time he'd finished moving the coffee table away, he found Rose already lying on top of the quilt in only her underwear. "I want to see you out of those," she added, dropping her gaze to his trousers.

He would happily oblige since his burgeoning erection was straining against the restrictive fabric. Sherlock swiftly drew his t-shirt over his head, then fumbled with the fly.

"As we only have fifteen minutes," Rose said with a chuckle, "you might like to hurry things up a bit."

"What?" _Oh. Of course._ Rose was mocking him. Him and his ignorant comments only moments before losing his virginity to Shelley, the prostitute, all those years ago.

Sherlock suspected he'd have trouble with the leather trousers at the time he was donning them, but he thought he'd have a little more time to remove them than this.

"How about I amuse myself while I'm waiting?"

_Wait. What?_

Rose kept her eyes on his while one hand slid into the front of her knickers. Sherlock couldn't remove his trousers quick enough. He really couldn't.

Suddenly lightbulbs flashed before his eyes, and voices yelled over one another.

"Mister Holmes… any comments on Ms Hawkins' story?"

"Did you really make her wear the hat?"

"John Watson," said a female voice in his ear. "Kitty. Kitty Riley," the woman said as Sherlock turned to look at her. "Can I put you down as a 'No' there, too?"

Rose wasn't paying any attention to the reporters.

"Don't worry about them," she said. "Now that you've deleted Charles Magnussen's hard-drive, they've got no place to upload their stupid photos." Rose's hand was now caressing her belly. Her enormously _pregnant_ belly.

"No… wait," Sherlock rasped, as he continued struggling with the legs of his trousers. He had to have sex with her now, before the baby came. Otherwise they'd be so tired. The baby would keep them awake all night. They would be exhausted parents. He knew this after glancing at John Watson one day. He just knew.

Sherlock tried to edge away from Kitty Riley, but his movement was restricted by his pants and he toppled, crashing unceremoniously to the carpet.

In an instant, he was awake. The living area was in darkness, except for the glow of the fire. The reporters' babble had abruptly ceased. He was fully dressed and lay face down on the carpet in front of the sofa.

"Are you all right?" Rose called from the vicinity of her bedroom.

 _Jesus fucking Christ,_ Sherlock thought, rolling to his side. He still had an erection. He hadn't dreamt that!

"Sherlock?"

"Just…" he said, without a clue about what he was going to say next.

Rose appeared in the doorway to her bedroom.

"Are you all right? Did you fall off?"

Sherlock heaved out a sigh in relief. Rose looked normal again. She was still fully dressed in her t-shirt and trackpants and not… _pregnant_. Nor was she acting in that fake playful manner in which Shelley the prostitute once indulged.

_Stupid subconscious. What was it playing at?_

"I'm… fine," Sherlock said, moving to a sitting position and hoping Rose couldn't see the bulge in his trousers in the dark.

"You're welcome to lie down on my bed," she said, as she turned from him.

_Oh no, not this again._

"I didn't wake you," Rose continued, her voice floating to him from the bedroom as Sherlock glanced at the place where Shelley the nightmare prostitute had lain, "because you looked so exhausted."

Rose was already back in bed, but she sat on the far side with her legs bent and her textbook perched against them. Her bedside lamp was lit beside her. Sherlock was relieved she looked quite removed from his nightmare sex worker of a few moments ago.

"Um…" he said, then turned his back on her as he plopped down onto the bed and began removing his socks. "We haven't exactly sorted out anything. How can you invite me into your bed so readily?"

He was dreading the answer. The remnants of his dream still hung over him and he couldn't stand it if Rose was trying to seduce him right now.

"Well, you have to sleep somewhere," she said distractedly. Sherlock glanced around. Rose had her attention firmly fixed on her textbook. "And the sofa is obviously too small. I still care about you after all."

Her eyes met Sherlock's at that moment, and she gave him a resigned smile.

Sherlock's heart began to flutter. He felt too embarrassed to lie next to her with the evidence of his obvious arousal.

He pulled the quilt down a little then attempted to surreptitiously swivel his legs under it.

"Aren't you going to remove your pants?" she asked, without a hint of sexual undertones, Sherlock was relieved to hear.

"Ah…"

"They must be uncomfortable."

Sherlock gave an embarrassed cough, then sat up once more. He heard Rose turn a page in her book, so he gathered she wasn't paying any further attention to him.

 _Fucking nightmares,_ he thought.

The trousers came off with surprising ease.

_I'm really going to have to reboot my hard-drive at some stage._

Sherlock settled underneath the quilt and let out a satisfied sigh. His eyes settled on the ceiling of the basement flat and he laced his fingers together across the quilt. The paint above flaked and peeled in places and Sherlock wondered underneath which part of the house they lay.

Beside him, Rose let out a tiny chuckle.

"You look so uncomfortable," she said.

"I _am_ uncomfortable."

"This reminds me of that time I shocked you with my confession about loving you. Do you remember? All you could do was lie beside me and stare at the ceiling while I worked."

"How could I forget?" Sherlock turned his head, his eyes locking on Rose's. She was looking at him with such affection in her eyes that his throat constricted a little. "It was one of the best moments of my life," he added.

Rose's eyes immediately began to moisten, and she braved a teary smile. She turned from him, as if embarrassed, but Sherlock was glad to see her close up her book and place it onto her bedside table.

"Rose," he said, prompting her to turn to him once more. He studied her eyes, and felt his own chest tightening. But he knew how to say this now. There would be no more hindrances. "I love you."

Rose choked out a sob, but a trembling smile stretched across her face again.

"I know you do," she all but whispered. And she slid down a little, so she was level with Sherlock. She appeared to need a moment before replying. "I love you, too."

Sherlock wanted to move closer and kiss her, but he felt she was off limits at the moment. But her eyes were still glistening with tears, and he longed to comfort her in some way.

"But please respect my wishes," she added. "I've got a lot to think about."

Sherlock's heart plunged. He still had his work cut out for him.

"Then know this," he said, finally reaching for her and cupping her face in his hand. "I've got nothing to think about."

His thumb skimmed her cheek and the smile that grew from his comment lit up her whole face. Rose shuffled in closer and planted a soft kiss on his lips. Sherlock held his breath, unsure of how to respond, before he drew back.

"Ah… Rose…"

"Shh," she bid him. "I know you have an erection." She kissed him again, a little deeper this time, prompting Sherlock to tangle his fingers in her hair, drawing her in close.

What did 'knowing he had an erection' and 'continuing to kiss him' mean? Sherlock still had a lot to learn about relationships, and he hoped, as Rose pressed herself against him, that she would still be the one to teach him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The summer holidays are over in Australia, so it may be a little while before I update again. I hope you're all enjoying this story!


	74. By the Pricking of My Thumbs

Rose pulled back, for Sherlock had effectively tipped cold water over their snogging session. Are you sure we should be doing this right now? he'd asked. What kind of question was that? But she knew what he meant. At least, she thought she did. If she wasn't intending to have a relationship with Sherlock, then what the hell was she doing?

"I don't know," she replied.

He was so close. Rose could feel the light flutter of his breath upon her face. But he had moved his body away from hers—the minutest of movements, but enough so that there now existed a gap of micrometres between them, except for the entwining of arms. He still held her lightly. And they were still tethered by mutual desire.

"What are we supposed to do?" she added.

Sherlock's gaze was both piercing and searching. What must he think of her? Evasive one minute, lying in bed, snuggling, the next.

"Talk," he said eventually.

Rose didn't want to do that.

Talk.

Because that would mean admitting her real reason for wanting Sherlock out of her life. He's not a part of my plans, she kept saying to herself, over and over, like a new-found mantra. He couldn't possibly be.

"Or we could keep doing this," Sherlock said, with a sigh. He caressed her arm with his thumb. "Perhaps it'll make you feel more relaxed."

"I am relaxed."

Her body tensed automatically, in readiness for an argument with Sherlock. Naturally, he noticed, and a tiny smile tugged at one corner of his mouth.

"Clearly."

"Stop it."

His smile broadened, and he accompanied it with a low rumble of a laugh before narrowing the gap between them. He met her mouth again in a tender kiss that deepened further, eliciting hums of approval from Rose. It looked like he'd made the decision for her.

Once again, Rose was lost in the familiar comfort that came from lying in Sherlock's arms. His scent, his touch, and now the hunger in his kiss that prompted a desperate arousal within her. It was as she remembered. She gave herself over to the glorious pressure building up inside her as her tongue danced with his.

When Sherlock rose above her, she yielded, rolling to her back and feeling his full length upon her. Because this wasn't talking. This wasn't discussing the future nor dissecting her motivation. No deductions, no false truths, no excuses.

No lies.

Only this.

They disrobed one another in an almost perfectly choreographed manner. They anticipated each other's needs and fell into a familiar routine of mutual exploration. Rose's heart thundered and she trembled as Sherlock's bare hands heated her skin. As their antics became more restless, Sherlock had Rose laughing. Elbows and knees clashed, and a stray pillow fell onto her face when they each fought for dominance. He stopped for a moment and studied her face. Did her laughter surprise him? It certainly surprised Rose. She hadn't felt this giddy in an age.

The ache inside Rose grew, scaring her with the intensity of her neediness. She wanted to proceed slowly, to draw out what they had for tonight only, but the urgency built inside her under Sherlock's expert touch. It was with a raw desperateness that she gasped Sherlock's name when her orgasm shuddered through her. And as Sherlock collapsed on top of her, she emitted a sob that she quickly disguised in a series of breathless gasps for air.

Sherlock rolled from Rose, but kept her close and in his arms. Long gone were the days when he insisted she shouldn't touch him during his over-sensitive post-orgasm phase.

"Were you saying something?" he asked in between drawing in deep breaths.

Light laughter rippled through Rose once more. She felt light-headed as if she had no burdens at all. She shuffled in closer and kissed the underside of his jaw.

She didn't want to spoil the moment with needless conversation. It could turn into something emotional and heated. Rose sighed against Sherlock and closed her eyes. She felt the rise and fall of his chest until he regained his own breath back and it became steady.

They lay in silence. Perhaps Sherlock dozed off before she did. Rose wasn't sure. She slept intermittently—thoughts combining with dreams that would rouse her awake again. She must've fallen into a deeper sleep at some stage, as she could feel Sherlock slowly bringing her to the surface of wakefulness with soft kisses about her neck and shoulders. Rose had no idea what time it now was.

Sherlock's fingers trailed along her arm, then followed the line of her body, stopping to idly skim her breasts. Rose shuffled closer to let him know she was wide awake now. She lifted her head until he lowered his, seeking her mouth. She wrapped her legs around him, bringing him into her.

Their love-making was slow and tender and silent. This time they fell asleep in a tangle of limbs.

It was only short time later that Rose woke with a jolt. It took her a few seconds to register that Sherlock was in bed with her. They'd drifted apart at some stage.

Her insides twisted when she thought about the day that lay ahead. But she would have to deal with that later. She still had a tonne of reading to do and discussion questions to answer before tomorrow. Rose had the feeling she wouldn't get much work done later this evening so she set herself the task of completing as much as she could this morning.

She slid on her dressing gown and left the bedroom. She quietly closed the double sliding doors that usually opened the room onto the living area so it would receive the heat from the fire. The bedroom was now warm enough, and she didn't want to wake Sherlock with the glare from the light above the dining table. Rose filled the kettle and flicked it on, then made for the bathroom that was adjacent to the kitchen. When she returned, she made herself a cuppa and opened her books. For an hour or so, she lost herself in the topic of Violence Risk Assessment once more.

It was still dark outside, but Rose knew it was just on seven when she heard the doors slide open behind her. She twisted around and discovered Sherlock standing there, wrapped in her white bedsheet.

"Why are you awake?" he asked, his mouth turned down at the edges.

"I still have to study," she replied, stifling a giggle at his petulant expression and dishevelled appearance.

Sherlock drifted closer, still unimpressed. Rose tilted her head to receive his morning kiss. As he left her for the kitchen area, she glanced at her almost empty tea cup. She could do with a top up, but she didn't want Sherlock hanging about when she needed to concentrate.

"You can go back to sleep if you like," Rose said.

"No. I'm awake now."

Sherlock refilled the kettle, went to the bathroom as Rose had done, and by the time he reappeared, Rose was furiously scribbling notes on Landmark Studies on Clinical Prediction. It was some time later that she realised Sherlock hadn't delivered on another cup of tea. In fact, she didn't recall seeing him preparing any tea over near the sink.

Rose left the dining table, about to look for Sherlock in the bedroom, when she spied his feet dangling over the edge of the sofa. Looks like he didn't get very far, she thought. Rose rounded the sofa and found the World's Only Consulting Detective still bound in her bedsheet, fast asleep.

She smiled to herself, a warmth spreading through her at the memories the image of him brought. Instead of curling up beside him like she longed to do, Rose finished writing up her notes for the last discussion question, then packed up her books and headed back to the bedroom to dress.

Sherlock stayed asleep during her entire morning's preparation. She even fixed herself a piece of toast with black cherry jam. But she had to leave now. It took over three quarters of an hour to get to the Sighthill Campus at this time of day, plus she had to change buses.

Rose sank down onto the sofa beside Sherlock. Leaning over him, she planted a soft kiss on his lips. He stirred, his eyelids opening a crack before deep furrows appeared in his brow. He reached out and pinched Rose's arm.

She let out a yelp and exclaimed, "What did you do that for?"

Sherlock looked blearily up at her.

"To check if I was dreaming," he replied, his voice thickened by sleep.

"You're supposed to pinch yourself!"

Rose rubbed at her arm while Sherlock looked around him. He seemed uneasy.

"Are you sure this isn't a dream?" he asked. "Why are you dressed?"

"I have to go to uni."

"What?"

"I've got two lectures, back to back." Reaching for him and patting him reassuringly on the arm, she added, "Don't worry. They'll be over by lunchtime. I should be back by one. An early finish today."

Rose stood up and moved aside as Sherlock yawned widely and swung his legs from the sofa.

"Nope," he said, bowing his head and vigorously rubbing his scalp. "It's too early a start for you."

Rose reluctantly left the living area with a longing to run her own fingers through Sherlock's curls. "I've got two buses to catch," she told him, picking up her backpack. She grabbed at the drink bottle she'd filled earlier, and tucked it into the side of the bag. She heard Sherlock rise and shuffle over to her.

"No," he said, enveloping her in his embrace from behind. "That's a rubbish plan."

Rose leant back into him, and momentarily closed her eyes, feeling his steady breath on her neck and drawing in the familiar traces of cologne still lingering about him.

"Sorry," she whispered.

"I've got a better plan," he whispered back.

Sherlock was able to convince Rose to let him take her to uni. They'd even have time to go somewhere for a coffee first. Sherlock chuckled to himself as he headed to the bathroom to take a shower, still clad in the sheet. Obviously he knew where Rose's initial hesitance came from. She'd never ridden on a motorbike before.

They pulled up by the kerb in front of the coffee shop on Colington Road, a few kilometres before the Edinburgh Napier University, where Sherlock knew Rose was enrolled in post-graduate study, a Masters in Applied Criminology and Forensic Psychology. He thought that was particularly awesome of Rose. Perhaps one day they'd get to work together!

Rose released her grip on Sherlock and straightened up. He lifted the visor and turned his head toward her.

"You all right?" he asked.

"Oh… God, yes," she replied, somewhat breathlessly.

He gave her a moment before he instructed her to climb from the bike in the reverse order she had mounted it. Sherlock quickly dismounted and securely stowed their gear while Rose hastened into the coffee shop and out of the elements. Edinburgh never let up on the drizzle, Sherlock thought, glancing at the brooding clouds before he joined Rose inside.

"It's supposed to snow this week," Rose told him as he removed his gloves and tugged at his scarf just inside the doorway. Her cheeks were flushed, and excitement danced in her eyes. She had clearly enjoyed the motorbike ride.

A woman behind the counter called out, "Might snow today by the looks of it."

Sherlock gave her a wan smile, then bid Rose find them a table while he ordered their beverages.

The coffee shop was almost empty, with the presence of only one other couple huddled in the far corner. Rose had told Sherlock that most people heading to Sighthill would prefer to get there first, then grab a coffee from the on-campus Starbucks. Sherlock had wrinkled his nose at the thought, but it explained the absence of patrons this early on a week day.

While he was ordering a pot of tea for two, Sherlock glanced over at Rose. She had her nose in her textbook once more. A feeling of unease rippled through him. What if this didn't work? What if she didn't change her mind?

But why wouldn't she? Rose was already relaxed in his company out in public! Clearly she had no concerns about Sherlock being recognised in Edinburgh, although perhaps it was because his appearance was less like Sherlock Holmes the Consulting Detective from London and more like Scott Williams, his current alter-ego, who had signed for the storage shed and purchased a motorcycle in Newcastle.

The coffee shop owner told Sherlock she'd bring their tea, so he headed over to Rose. When he sat down, she snapped her book shut and gave him a warm smile. Perhaps he should've insisted she keep studying, but he felt a bit selfish at the moment. She didn't stay in bed this morning and snuggle with him. She'd left him lonely and cold so she could hit the books again. He needed her attention on him. He had less than twelve hours left in which to impress her.

"It's just so interesting," Rose said, her eyes twinkling once more.

Oh. So she was going to discuss her studies anyway.

"Unstructured clinical judgement," she continued, "based on a clinician's professional opinion, their own experiences, and intuition. And it's—"

"Intuition," Sherlock repeated derisively.

"Yes," Rose said, with a laugh. "It's not all hairs on the back of your neck, or—"

"Sorry?"

"'By the pricking of my thumbs,'" she said in a mock ominous voice, her eyes widening. Then she added facetiously, "'Something wicked this way comes.'" And she laughed again. "Although that's more to do with premonition than intuition."

Sherlock frowned. What is this psycho-babble rubbish?

"Sorry… what?" he asked.

"Macbeth."

When Sherlock gave her a dubious look, Rose added, "The witches? Macbeth. Shakespeare. You know…"

"Shakespeare Macbeth?" Sherlock asked. "Is he from around here?"

He was both surprised and warmed when Rose laughed again. She was in a good mood. Sparkling even. Sherlock put it down to the adrenalin that probably still coursed through her veins from the motorbike ride. And he did take the bends at his preferred speed: fast.

"Nope. Don't get it," he said.

"Shakespeare," she said again. "The playwright? Everyone studies his plays in school. Everyone. You would have, surely."

"Well, if I did, then I've deleted the whole experience."

"O-kay," Rose remarked, a tinge of humour still lacing her voice. "But I'm betting you've got entire monologues trapped inside that head of yours, just bursting to get out."

Sherlock continued furrowing his brow, still unimpressed. Doubt it, he thought.

"So," said Rose. "Where was I?"

"Intuition, apparently."

Rose leant back in her seat and told Sherlock about their debate in a tutorial one week, about intuition versus instinct. She said that a decision based on intuition involved far too many complexities within the mind to ever discern how that decision came about, a notion Sherlock found fascinating.

Data processed at such a rate that the conscious mind fails to grasp just how, he thought. His own mind worked at lightning speed, and most of the time he could recall the logical progression of thoughts. But sometimes...

He was about to voice these thoughts to Rose when a waitress brought over their pot of tea. They both lapsed into silence while the pot and cups were laid out before them. Once Sherlock had thanked the waitress, and she had left, Rose began to pour the tea.

"So, what was that?" she asked him. Sherlock could tell she was suppressing the desire to laugh at him again.

"What was what?"

"That… accent."

"It's Scottish."

One of Rose's brows shot up.

"It it?"

"Yes," Sherlock said, feeling defensive. "People from Scotland speak it. Haven't you noticed?"

"You might want to decide exactly where in Scotland you're coming from. Or Ireland... or the North of England."

"Scott Williams comes from all over. Hence the motorcycle."

"Who?"

Sherlock leant forward and said, "I'm undercover, Rose."

"And how did you think up a name like that?"

Sherlock reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out his wallet. After opening it, he slid out his real driving licence and passed it across the table to Rose. He watched as her mouth formed a delighted 'o'.

"Your name's William?"

"Shh!"

Rose began to chuckle again.

"William Sherlock Scott Holmes!"

"William is far too commonplace. I've always preferred Sherlock. How would you like it if everybody knew your name was actually Rosemarie?" Sherlock said in a low voice.

Rose passed Sherlock's licence back to him.

"Just about everyone I meet in Scotland knows my name is Rosemarie. I can't be bothered to let them know I prefer Rose."

"Why not?"

"Because Rose reminds me of living in London."

Rose looked away from Sherlock and slowly stirred her tea. Sherlock slipped his licence back into his wallet. A heavy weight descended on him once more. Does everything about London bring Rose bad memories?

And what was wrong with his Scottish accent, Sherlock thought as he opened a sachet of sugar and tipped the contents into his tea cup. It was one he was working on. He may like to add it to his repertoire.

"So…" Rose began again. "How is London? How's everybody?"

"Ah… good," Sherlock replied, leaning forward on his elbows. "John and Mary asked me to be Godfather to their…baby."

Sherlock didn't fail to notice the tiny flicker of alarm that crossed Rose's face, and then it was gone.

"Godfather, wow…" she said, swiftly recovering from whatever had concerned her in that moment. "I'm sorry. I didn't even think to ask… what did they have?"

"A girl. Rosamund Mary."

"Oh. Lovely."

"Rosie for short," Sherlock added, with an embarrassed smile.

Rose quickly returned his smile, but Sherlock could still detect an uneasiness within Rose.

"Someone in Mary's family, apparently," Sherlock quickly added. "The name, that is."

Rose nodded vaguely, a tiny smile fixed on her face. Why was she uncomfortable with this conversation? It was just a baby. John and Mary's baby. And hadn't she made peace with John now?

Oh! That was it! Sherlock cast his mind even further back. Rose had become uneasy around anything relating to Mary Watson, ever since Sherlock revealed who had shot him. She probably didn't like to think about Sherlock in any kind of close proximity to Mary, so he sought to ease her worries by placing the former assassin within an ordinary context.

"There was a bit of a ceremony," Sherlock added, puffing out his chest a little. "And cake."

"I didn't think many people had christenings these days," Rose remarked, lifting her tea cup and taking a sip.

"Don't they? Well, I wouldn't really know. Not something I ever think about."

"No," she said, her voice taking on a distant quality Sherlock couldn't interpret. "I don't suppose you would ever have to."

Rose continued sipping her tea, glancing around at the café as she did so. She straightened up in the seat, and Sherlock noticed a slight shift in mood.

"Any interesting cases?" she asked.

Sherlock could tell she was attempting to move away from the conversation that involved Mary, so he was happy to tell Rose about his last few cases, carefully omitting any involvement Mary may have had. His inbox had been bursting, especially since he started tweeting with the 221BringIt hashtag.

When Rose's phone chimed with a message, she glanced down and declared it time to go.

Sherlock's heart sank a little. He was just getting warmed up, and Rose had relaxed enough once more to laugh at a couple of his case-related anecdotes, specifically about the incompetency of Scotland Yard and the bewilderment of clients when Sherlock would deduce the minutiae of their lives. She was also quite impressed about his deduction involving a jellyfish as the perpetrator. But he drained the last of his tea anyway, and they set off for the university.

Rose directed Sherlock to the shelter by the bus-stop so she could dismount the bike out of the rain, which had only begun to get heavy after they'd left the coffee shop. Sherlock quickly stowed the helmet Rose had used, then rounded the bike to say goodbye. He also removed his helmet, figuring they'd spent enough time together, in broad daylight, probably more than the entire time they'd been together in London.

Rose didn't seem to mind, but she did appear slightly nervous, as if this was a first date and she was unsure how to say goodbye. The situation was akin to Sherlock's evening out with Janine Hawkins all those months ago, although he had manufactured his discomfort in order to wend his way into Janine's heart. His own heart heaved at the memory of the pain he'd caused Rose at the time.

But at the moment, Rose was looking up at him with affection written plainly on her face, with a delicate flush crossing her cheeks. The rest of the world didn't seem to matter to her.

"This was amazing," she said. "I didn't think I'd enjoy riding on the back of a motorbike so much. But…"

The corners of Sherlock's mouth curved upwards and his chest expanded a little.

"I could pick you up for lunch, if you like," he said. "We could go somewhere… dry."

Rose laughed lightly, and she took a step towards him.

"That would be lovely," she replied, lightly touching Sherlock's arm to balance herself as she stood on her toes. She planted a quick kiss on his lips that Sherlock wasn't expecting. Not such a gesture in public, and not from Rosemarie Sulford, formerly of Leinster Gardens. "Goodbye, Sherlock," she said softly.

His mouth had gone dry, and he swallowed awkwardly.

"'Bye, Rose."

A smile grew on her face and Sherlock realised why. The beginning of their goodbye ritual! Sherlock began to feel emboldened. This was an important moment for them both, because their ritual had reached a new level of intimacy. He could now say…

"I love you."

Rose appeared to melt before his eyes as a result of his spoken words. Tears pooled in hers, before she responded, her voice brimming with raw emotion.

"I love you, too."

Relief flooded through Sherlock. This was a new beginning for them both. A new existence. Rose didn't mind being seen in public with him, and he could tell her he loved her, unprompted, without being high!

He ducked his head and brushed his lips against hers as the final step in saying goodbye.

"I'll see you at lunchtime," Rose murmured, with a tiny smile on her face. Then she turned and quickly strode towards the buildings.

Sherlock replaced his helmet and made the bike roar into life. He decided he needed a quick getaway and an open road. He felt the need for speed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry--I completely forgot to update the story on here. I've been adding to the story over on fanfiction. net, but forgot about this version. It must be because it's so quiet over here!


	75. You Can't Go, I'm Pregnant!

 

Sherlock spent most of the morning exploring the outskirts of Edinburgh before finally deciding on a lunchtime destination near the city centre. By the time he arrived at the university where he had previously dropped off Rose, she was already waiting for him. She smiled demurely at him as he pulled up at the kerb.

Little was exchanged between them as Rose donned the spare helmet and they sped off once more. Sherlock took the long way around before finally parking outside a boutique hotel in Picardy Place. There was a steak restaurant adjacent to the hotel and several other eating places within walking distance. His preference was the restaurant, because it seemed like it would appear more intimate, but it wasn't open for lunch. He had chosen the hotel, however, because he had made plans. An eating establishment was secondary.

The rain started to fall, lightly at first, as Rose left Sherlock to approach a statue that was facing the other way. Sherlock had investigated it earlier—some literary figure, not even a real person! Rose had murmured that she had always wanted to see it, so Sherlock busied himself securing their items before the heavier rainfall sent them both hurrying over to seek shelter in front of the hotel.

"Well, we could…" Sherlock gestured along the street and the corner around which he knew other food outlets existed, as Rose shivered beside him. "Or…" He drew in a steadying breath and hoped Rose wouldn't take his suggestion the wrong way. "I've actually…" He folded in his upper lip as Rose curiously looked up at him. "I've booked us a room… well, a bath… a room with a bath, because I know how much you like to…" Sherlock inhaled deeply again as Rose raised an interested brow. "And in this weather, in the middle of winter, there isn't actually any site-seeing you can do here, except galleries, and they're rubbish. And I don't fancy standing inside a glasshouse in the middle of the botanic gardens, hoping for snow. And you don't have a bathtub in your basement flat, and I know you like… baths." He trailed off, but was thankful to see Rose's face brighten into a smile, and finally, she emitted a tiny chuckle.

As she hugged herself, obviously suffering in the weather, she said, "I do love fluffy white snow. But, fuck, it's cold. Show me your room with a bath, then."

Ten minutes later, Rose stood gazing out of the hotel room window at the view that showed the rain-misted shadowy shapes of the Firth of Forth as Sherlock filled the bathtub. Their third floor room of the converted Georgian house offered the best views, and Sherlock had requested it specifically. Rose had been telling Sherlock about one of her lectures when she had breathed out a "Wow," in response to the view.

As the bath filled, they discussed options for lunch, with Rose concluding she wanted something hot but not heavy. Soup was the best option there. Sherlock left Rose preparing for her soak in the tub and headed downstairs to find a suitable café. Thankfully, the reception staff insisted he order something in rather than braving the elements. After Sherlock made a phone call to a café around the corner that agreed to deliver, the receptionist offered to bring the food up to their room once it arrived.

The easy bit taken care of, Sherlock climbed the three flights of stairs back up to their room, a dull ache in his chest. Rose was already in the bath by the time he returned. He informed her about the status of her lunch, then offered to make her a cup of tea. He stuck to the safety of the bedroom, rather than talking to her from within the bathroom where Rose would most likely be lathering herself.

"Don't worry about the tea just yet," Rose called back.

After Sherlock had removed his jacket, because the room was rapidly becoming toasty, Rose called him.

"Yes?" he asked. She didn't reply, which meant she was waiting for him to enter the bathroom.

"I thought you were going to join me," she said, continuing to lather one leg and looking up at him through her lashes.

Both longing and fear coiled through Sherlock. He wanted this, but the future still seemed so hazy that he also hated to think of the disappointment that may be waiting for him.

"Do you want me to?" he asked, straining to speak through the thickening of his larynx.

"Of course!"

Sherlock turned from the bathroom, exhaling a sigh into the open bedroom. He was receiving so many contradictory signals from Rose. But he quickly and silently shed the remainder of his clothing, then returned to the bathroom. Rose had already slid forward, her legs bent at the knees, as she always used to do when they performed this ritual in Baker Street.

So long ago.

Apart from the passage of time, a heart-shattering break up, remnants of almost-infidelity, a drug relapse, and the murder of an unarmed man, everything seemed to be  _just the same_  as it always had been.

And the temperature of the bath water was two degrees above intolerable, just like it used to be.

" _Christ!_ "

"Sorry!"

Rose slid back and settled against Sherlock. She began gently running a facecloth along Sherlock's arm, so he leant his head back, closed his eyes, and pretended they were upstairs in 221B Baker Street. The low hum of the traffic outside could very well be taken for central London traffic on a Sunday.

Rose's gestures eventually took on a new meaning, and one thing led to another with them both ending up entwined, quite damp, but at least on the bed. Sherlock still found sex in the bathtub largely unacceptable. Foreplay, yes. Intercourse, no.

There was a knock on the door, but they hadn't quite finished with one another.

"Sherlock… that's…" Sherlock stopped, lost in his own… something or other. "…the door," Rose finished.

Sherlock advised Rose that it was probably her lunch and then he sighed and climbed from her.

"Are you sure?" she asked. "Perhaps it's John Watson again."

Sherlock didn't understand the joke. He frowned in response to Rose's half smile as he made his way to the bathroom where he retrieved both bathrobes from behind the door.

"I think I'd better answer the door," Rose said, eyeing Sherlock suggestively, even though he'd now donned the robe. He sighed and sought sanctuary back in the bathroom until Rose gave him the all-clear.

Rose, fully clad in her hotel-issued bathrobe, was peering into the takeaway bag when Sherlock re-entered the room.

"So are we just…" Sherlock said, gesturing between the bed and Rose's lunch. "…pausing… for lunch?"

Rose chuckled lightly and left the food, in preference to drawing herself up in front of him.

"Lunch can wait," she whispered, tugging at the sash on his robe.

It didn't take them long to get worked up once more. It was more like a race… was it a race? Fortunately, they reached the finish line together, and lay sprawled and panting, staring up at the extra high ceilings. Day time sex also reminded Sherlock of those lazy Sundays in Baker Street, but without the distant hum of Mrs Hudson's vacuum cleaner. And how he missed Cluedo!

Eventually, Rose turned to her side and moulded herself into him. He felt her breath flutter against his neck as she sighed contentedly. His heart swelled at the sensation.

"I can't stay here all night," she said. Sherlock's heart began to deflate again. "All my books are at home, and I still have to—"

"—study."

Sherlock tangled his fingers in Rose's hair, but suddenly she was away from him and grabbing at her bathrobe. He was starting to receive those alarming signals from her again. He stayed where he was for only a moment longer, before he, too, rose and wrapped his robe around himself.

"Mmm," Rose remarked from the vicinity of the takeaway soup. "Potato and leek. Try some."

"No, thank you," Sherlock said, while he was tying up the robe's sash. "Potatoes and leek. Two of the dullest vegetables on the planet, and they've constructed a soup out of them."

"It's really nice!" Rose said, with a laugh. "And anyway, didn't you order it for me?"

"I simply asked for the  _soupe du jour_. I didn't care to hear what it was."

They sat in companionable silence once more, while Rose finished her soup and Sherlock tutted while clicking through the television channels. Eventually, Sherlock stretched out along the sofa, and Rose joined him. It seemed as if they still existed around one another in perfect synchronisation, not having to speak or suggest what their next movements would be.

Lying on a sofa both clad in bathrobes, in front of the telly, discussing the inanities of the programme they were watching, making Rose laugh, and occasionally snogging: now this was like being in Leinster Gardens. And then Rose began to press her desires onto Sherlock.  _Definitely_  like Leinster Gardens.

But,  _Christ_! Four times in a twenty-four hour period! There would be nothing left of him at this rate. Sherlock assumed this was something akin to being on a honeymoon. A "sex holiday."

Or a conjugal visit.

But this time, Rose didn't stay lying in Sherlock's arms, post-coitus. She quickly left him for the bathroom. Could he hear her sniffing?

So, what should he do now? He knew Rose's clothing lay in a heap on the floor of the bathroom. There was a good chance she'd emerge fully dressed, and then he'd feel like an idiot for remaining naked, with the bathrobe loosely draped around him.

Reluctantly, Sherlock rose from the sofa and began to dress. Rose  _was_  crying, wasn't she? Quite obviously the end was nigh, and she couldn't reconcile the emotion that had built up during  _the best twenty-four hours_  she'd ever experienced, with what she was about to tell him. Sherlock was a bit off with reading Rose at the moment, but he knew her laughter was spontaneous, the enthusiasm in her touch was real, and her sighs so tangible he wanted to bottle them. But there was something about her that niggled at Sherlock—something that wasn't quite right that was forcing her decision not to go in his favour.

He was just buttoning up his shirt cuffs when Rose emerged from the bathroom, fully dressed. Her eyes quickly scanned his attire, before she turned from him as if she needed to search the room for something.

"Well, this was lovely," she said. Her words vaporised into the air, they were so thin. It didn't even sound as if Rose had spoken them. She drifted toward the window. "I'd love to see it snow from up here," she added dreamily. Her shoulders drooped ever-so slightly, and Sherlock knew she was lamenting something that couldn't be. But he couldn't take her in his arms. He felt paralysed with the inability to make things right.

"Yes, well, we could…" Sherlock began, reaching down to scoop up his jacket from a nearby chair, "come back later after we retrieve your books." His words sounded hollow, even to himself.

But Rose strode by him and picked up her handbag from the coffee table in complete silence. Sherlock made for the door and wrenched it open. Her silence spoke volumes to him. It was over. Just like that.

Technically, Sherlock had about six hours remaining if he excluded the time she'd been at uni, but Rose's demeanour quite clearly gave him her answer already.  _Why?_ was what he wanted to ask. If he couldn't change her mind in eighteen of the twenty-four hours, what could he possibly do in the last six? Make it snow for her?

He had to take her home first. This wasn't a conversation for an inner-city boutique hotel in Edinburgh. He would at least take her home, even though he had nothing else to say.

* * *

Rose bowed her head as she leant against the kitchen bench. The kettle began its noisy rasping pre-boil protest. She shivered, then quickly made her way over to the fireplace. Sherlock would be here any second now, and him lapsing into silence meant he already knew her answer.

He was right. This was one of the loveliest twenty-four hours she'd ever had. She couldn't recall laughing so much in one period, and now she was about to ruin it for both of them. She couldn't tell him about her pregnancy. What was once a decision she'd made for herself ( _and the baby_ ) in the absence of Sherlock, now became something to keep from him because she didn't want to burden him with the responsibility. Sitting in the café this morning, he'd told her about dozens of cases he'd solved in the previous month. Cases that had him working alone some of the time because John  _had responsibilities now,_ he'd said. John Watson couldn't just up and leave at a moment's notice  _because of baby Rosie._

She couldn't do that to Sherlock. That wasn't a life he'd ever planned for himself. He was Sherlock Holmes, the World's Only Consulting Detective. He could never be the kind of detective he was, spontaneous, edgy, carefree, and be a  _sometime dad._ That notion sounded ridiculous.

And worse: if she did tell him, and he  _rejected her—_ rejected both of them—that would be a stab to the heart she never wanted to experience.

She wanted them to separate on her terms. It would be  _her_ decision alone, as it had been initially.

They hadn't arrived at her basement flat together because she'd asked him to park a block away, so nosy neighbours wouldn't stare out of their windows and ask questions later.

"If you park your bike outside the Fergusons again," she had said, "everyone will think you visited them."

"I  _did_  visit the Fergusons."

"You did?"

"Yes. I asked if they minded if I parked my motorbike outside their house because I'm visiting my Aunt Flora and I didn't want to startle her with the sound of the bike."

"Flora? As in Flora Derby?"

"That's the one. Aunt Flora. On the corner."

"But she suffers from dementia. She won't know—"

"—if I visited her or not. The perfect cover story."

Sherlock had given her a weak smile, before turning back to his motorbike and securing his helmet in place. And he didn't reply when Rose told him she'd leave the gate unlocked for him.

She built up the logs in the fireplace and lit the kindling. When she knelt back, she heard the door open.

"The kettle's on," she said to Sherlock as she straightened up. She gestured feebly toward the kitchen but then froze when she took in Sherlock's expression.

He stood, immobile, by the door, staring at her, his eyes slightly rounder.

"Why, Rose," he said, his voice a mixture of gravel and bone-deep sorrow.

Rose's breath hitched in her throat.

"Sherlock." His name came out as an exasperated sigh. She didn't want him to plead with her. "You said you'd respect my decision."

He shook his head slowly, his expression unchanging.

"Then why did we go through with this… this day together?"

He must know why, Rose thought. Wasn't it obvious?

"Because I didn't like how we parted last time," she replied, striving to keep her voice even. "And all those months ago, with the…" Rose swallowed the name  _Magnussen_ , before it passed through her lips. "The… case… You were kind of obsessed. Then the drugs, and Janine, and you getting shot. Things got worse after that. This… this was like how it used to be between us. Is that such a bad thing to want for our last time together?"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at her, and Rose knew what that look meant.

"But that's not all, is it?" he began. "This was supposed to be an  _honest goodbye_. You're quite clearly keeping something from me."

Her stomach dropped several inches. He wasn't supposed to find out this way! Deducing her pregnancy was one thing, but Rose didn't want to have to tell him.

"Then why can't you…" Her hands itched to cross her abdomen. A protective reflex… or did she find it comforting?

"Make a deduction?" Sherlock finished for her.

Rose wanted to snap out of her defensive stance. She moved away from the fireplace, momentarily putting the sofa between her and Sherlock, but she ended up stopping before the dining table. Sherlock moved a few feet away from the door and towards her.

"If you've already noticed something, then why can't you...just..." Rose offered.

"Because I can't see you properly," Sherlock replied, impatiently. "You're full of contradictions, and my… feelings for you just get in the way. It's like… radio interference or something." He gestured dismissively. There was a faint look of disgust on his face, as if he was disappointed in his lack of observational skill when it came to her. "When I saw you yesterday," he went on, "you looked defeated. You looked tired…" He waved a hand flippantly toward her stomach. "You looked…  _pregnant_. There. You see?" He raised his eyebrows quizzically. Did he not notice Rose's hiccuping sob at the word  _pregnant_? "Utter nonsense," he continued. "Obviously your family upstairs bring you meals, and…"

Sherlock had paused. So he  _had_  noticed.

"Rose?" But her eyes had filled to the brim, and she had placed a shaking hand over her mouth. "Rose?"

He took a step towards her.

"Clearly I'm missing something," he said, lowering his voice to a gentle pitch. "Is there—"

"I'm pregnant."

"—someone else?"

Rose blinked, forcing a tear to trickle down her cheek.

"Do you have a boyfriend?"

"I'm  _pregnant_!" she said again, louder this time.

Sherlock recoiled as if slapped, a reaction that caused a flood of emotion to burst from Rose.

"I'm pregnant! I'm having a baby! You were right the first time!"

Creases appeared in Sherlock's brow as if he didn't comprehend, and then he blinked a couple of times.

"So you  _do_ have a boyfriend." Rose gaped at him for a moment. But he continued with, "Does he even kno—"

"No! There's no one else. I'm eight weeks, Sherlock. Eight. Count them…" There was no response from the detective-genius. "Christmas Eve!" Sherlock didn't move. "Oh my God!" Rose exclaimed, tearing herself away from his blank gaze. She paced toward the kitchen and then spun around. "Christmas Eve! Don't you remember? Were you that high?"

He slowly met her gaze and said, "Christmas…?"

"Eve!"

Rose continued to scrutinise Sherlock's expression. It was like nothing at all was getting in.

"We had sex," she said, incredulity growing in her tone. "You and I. At Billy's. In that room you were fixing up. I had no…. We didn't use…" Rose felt she was answering questions Sherlock wasn't even asking. Why wasn't he firing questions at her by now, to ascertain the real truth. To find the holes in her story. Perhaps he didn't understand. "Sherlock." Her voice was fraying at the edges now. "We had sex. It's you. You're the f—"

But she couldn't finish her sentence.  _Father._ Such a word should never be associated with Sherlock Holmes. He was a professional. He had responsibilities to all of England, not to two insignificant people: a single mother and her child. Ten a penny! What made her so special that she could take him away from a more noble existence?

Emboldened by her thoughts, she straightened up, and continued.

"It was my fault. I stopped using contraception and I didn't tell you. I'm taking full responsibility and I've already made my decision. One that has nothing to do with you. I've made plans and..."

She stopped, because Sherlock was looking into nothingness again. She'd seen that expression before, as if the shutters had come down. He'd reacted in the same way when she first told him she was in love with him. He needed the time to process this information, because at the moment, it didn't compute.

But Rose didn't want to take the time to wait until Sherlock understood. She didn't want to sit him down, make him a cuppa, and talk about how it was possible that he was going to be a father. She wouldn't let him take on that burden. And the idea of him  _knowing_ and verbally  _agreeing_  to leave her with this responsibility was a heartbreak from which she knew she'd never recover.

She had to make him go, now, before he said anything.

Rose walked over to the door, brushing past Sherlock as she did so.

She held the door open and said, "Sherlock. Please respect my decision."

The cold wind that whipped through the doorway appeared to snap Sherlock out of his thoughts. He turned to her, a faint puzzled expression on his face.

"This is your  _honest goodbye,_ " she added, attempting to mask her emotions with a look of indifference.

Sherlock blinked as if something had finally got through to him. Rose stepped aside and lowered her gaze, still holding the door open. Sherlock silently crossed the threshold and Rose quickly closed the door after him. She watched as a flurry of white specks drifted toward the tiled floor, propelled by the force of the door closing. Curious, she watched as the first of them touched the tiles and slowly melted into droplets of water.

Rose inhaled deeply and shivered. A heavy sense of despair and loss descended on her, mixed with awe and a tiny, childlike sense of excitement.

It was snowing.

And as an ache grew in her heart, she knew she hadn't pushed Sherlock away; she loved him more than she could possibly love anybody else, ever again. And it was for this reason she had let him go.

.


	76. Hard Logic versus Romantic Whimsy

Movement in Sherlock's periphery brought him back to the surface of his mind.

"When did you get back?" John Watson asked.

Sherlock blinked and refocussed on his former flatmate who stood in the middle of the living room rug with his hands on his hips.

"I…" he slowly began, giving himself some thinking time while the rest of his surroundings came into view.

By the light filtering in through the window and the ambient temperature of the room, he'd say it was mid-afternoon. And the journey from Edinburgh via Newcastle was... Did he leave at night?

"This morning," Sherlock concluded.

From the vicinity of the kitchen, his landlady scoffed.

"What are you talking about? You got back Friday morning. You've been sitting in that chair for most of the weekend."

Sherlock suddenly became aware of the cool leather upon which his arm rested. In his other hand, he held his mobile phone. He found himself sitting in his armchair by the fire, dressed in a grey button-up, his suit trousers and his dark blue dressing gown. A cup of tea sat by his left side, along with a plate of ginger nuts. Only two. Mrs Hudson usually gave him three, which meant he'd already consumed one. And a quick swipe of his phone told him today was _Monday_.

John snorted out a laugh, then made his way to his customary place on the sofa where Sherlock knew the doctor would begin scanning the newspaper for traces of interesting cases.

"Lost in your Mind Palace again?" John idly asked, without looking up for an answer.

Mrs Hudson drifted toward the living area, asking John a question about whether or not everything was sorted. Sherlock let their conversation wash over him—something about explosions and clean up and "You should've seen the expressions on her face."

Sherlock conducted a quick status check. He wasn't starving nor dehydrated, which meant he'd been fed and watered. He raked a hand over his jaw—freshly shaven. So he'd gone through the motions of basic hygiene, sustenance intake and grooming, all without conscious effort while he'd been hiding in his Mind Palace. But why?

He knew it had something to do with Rose. That much was obvious. There was a heavy weight in the pit of his stomach and his heart-beat was dull and unenthusiastic.

She told him to go.

Rose.

He felt ill-equipped and inadequate somehow. She'd made it so. He'd required guidance and she had instructed him to leave. And so he had. She neither wanted nor needed him. His role was to go away. An _honest goodbye_ was what he'd requested and therefore received.

Not wanted, not needed, and unqualified.

How could _he, Sherlock Holmes,_ be unqualified for anything? Surely a cursory glance at the relevant skillset required would make him an expert within a couple of hours? Why didn't Rose have faith in him? And why had he so readily accepted her assessment? As if _he knew_ and _agreed?_

A quick dip back into his Mind Palace showed Sherlock a blank screen with nothing but static on it. He'd been staring at this screen for hours, he remembered now. Nothing came into view. Too much interference. There was something he wasn't understanding, some concept that was beyond his level of comprehension.

Rose had rejected him, but this time not because she was afraid someone would be interested in her past occupation due to her association with the famous Sherlock Holmes. That no longer seemed relevant in Edinburgh. Being out in public with Scott Williams didn't bother Rose at all. And it wasn't as if she found Sherlock working on a specific case to be particularly troublesome. And no one had identified Rose as a prostitute. She still loved him, so what was the problem? Why had he been sent away? It came from within Rose, not from some external source that Sherlock could even assess or control.

Footsteps on the stairwell provoked some excitement from the occupants of the flat. Mrs Hudson turned to the landing and cooed a greeting.

"That must feel better now," she said, as Mary came into view. "Better out than in, I always say."

Mary was holding a familiar bundle, to whom Mrs Hudson had directed her remarks, but Sherlock's synapses suddenly made a combination of new connections.

 _ **Rosie**_.

Rosamund Mary.

Watson. **Baby** Watson.

Offspring.

_And, uh, you too, Sherlock._

_You, too, what?_

_Godfather. We'd like you to be God_ _**father** _ _._

_It's you, Sherlock. You're the f—_

_Mary, I think you should do a pregnancy test._

_I'm pregnant._

_Do you have a boyfriend?_

_**I'm PREGNANT!** _

_**YOU'RE THE F—** _

_How did_ he _notice before me? I'm a bloody doctor._

I'm having a **baby**.

Stop _panicking_.

— _BABY_

_We had sex. It's you. You're the f—_

_I'm not panicking._

_You looked… tired._

_You looked…pregnant._

I **am** pregnant!

_**You're the f—** _

"Here," said Mary to John, as Sherlock stood bolt upright. "Go to daddy."

_Daddy?_

John chuckled as he received his daughter. Sherlock's eyes had widened, but he stood, frozen to the spot, not really seeing the scene unfolding before him. His skin prickled and his heart-rate became lively and interesting.

Fight or flight?

"I…" he began, struggling to draw breath.

"Sherlock, are you all right?" Mary asked.

_**You're the f—** _

"I'm just…" He willed his legs to move in the direction of the kitchen. "Something I ate," he murmured, making a beeline towards his bedroom.

"Oh, dear," he heard Mrs Hudson say. "I hope it wasn't the chicken last night. You did leave it to go cold before you ate it."

He heard more clucking and cooing, and his God-daughter's hiccuping cry before all adults appeared to descend on her.

Sherlock shut the door on the outside world as tiny beads of sweat dotted his forehead.

_You're the…_

_I'm the… f—_

Erratic thoughts flitted through his mind. Nausea joined the tumult of emotions and sensations that began to batter his body. _I'm the f—_

His legs felt weak and Sherlock stumbled toward his bed and sank down onto it. He cradled his head in his hands and attempted to drew in much needed oxygen.

_This… this isn't happening. It doesn't make any sense._

_Rose was… Rose_ is _… pregnant. But it isn't… me._

 _Because_ …

Because Sherlock Holmes doesn't get women pregnant. Other men do. This was an ordinary, everyday occurrence, the world over. Conception. Pregnancy. Birth. Parenthood. Explosions and cleanup and…

… _Go to daddy._

But..

Rose.

_**I'm pregnant!** _

He _did_ see it! But he'd dismissed it at the time as something that made no sense.

Not _his_ Rose. Didn't they…but they always… there was always… _something_.

_**We had sex!** _

_No. No. No._

_I mean. Yes. We did. But that doesn't result in…_

_Well, it does. Biologically, speaking. But not us. Because we… always… use…_

_**It's my fault. I stopped using contraception and I didn't tell you.** _

_Wait. When? Why? And how can…_

_**I'm eight weeks, Sherlock. Eight. Count them…** _

Sherlock suddenly rose from the bed. Because eight weeks…

_**Count them…** _

He did. And eight weeks ago was _not…_

_**Christmas Eve. Were you that high?** _

Sherlock wasn't high at the moment, and Christmas Eve _wasn't_ eight weeks ago. Eight weeks ago was early to mid-December. And, until Christmas Eve, he hadn't seen Rose in months, let alone have sex with her. Well, she'd given him an ultimatum: the Magnussen case or their relationship. He had decided he could have both. Solve the case then continue his relationship with Rose. Perhaps she hadn't been in on the plan at the time, hence her never contacting him during his alternating stints in rehab and planning Magnussen's downfall. He hadn't realised it would take him so long. But long enough for Rose to decide not to use contraception anymore, apparently.

_Eight weeks._

Rose had had sex with someone else! But she wouldn't. That wasn't Rose at all. So…

Sherlock remembered John chuckling at him. They had worked out they could keep solving cases even though baby Watson's due date had come and gone.

 _Well, forty weeks is just a rough guide_ , John had said.

 _Wait_ , Sherlock queried. _Forty weeks? But doesn't that mean…_

And then John explained that the expected due date was calculated from the first date of the last period, not the actual conception date (which wasn't always known, he had added). The actual date of conception would be around two weeks later.

So, two weeks from early to mid-December is roughly…

_Christmas Eve._

His heart hiccuped again, but his central nervous system was beginning to restore itself to its normal default settings. He could think logically and sensibly again.

_Rose's pregnant. And I'm the f—_

But she had sent him away. Why?

_**I'm taking full responsibility and I've already made my decision. One that has nothing to do with you. I've made plans…** _

What plans? Nothing to do with him. Because…

And there it was. That feeling of inadequacy again. He wasn't qualified to be a f—. Rose knew that. And she knew him better than anybody on the planet. Her plans for parenthood only found one suitable candidate, not two. He wasn't capable of the role. Of course! What would he know? Being Sherlock Holmes, the World's Only Consulting Detective, didn't give him the necessary skills. He was just _Sherlock_ , upon whom the title of Godfather had been bestowed, not because of any particular function he needed to fulfil, apart from parroting a few choice words during a ludicrous, archaic ritual. It was just a title, and he'd been bribed to do it with the offer of cake!

Granted, he had succeeded in a handful of tasks where John, as a fully-qualified f—, had felt duty-bound to undertake and had performed abysmally. In the hospital, Sherlock had simply demonstrated to John how the correct placement of all items necessary in the changing of a nappy ensured both the efficiency and success of said task. John had stood in awe of Sherlock as the detective-genius had nimbly and dextrously performed the manual task of nappy changing with the minimum of fuss. Not a drop was spilled.

And there was also the occasion when Sherlock's normally harmonious thinking space had been invaded by an anxious John and a protesting Rosie. She was overtired, and so was he, but John's inconsistent attempts at soothing his baby only agitated her further. It was obvious.

"Look, you need to calm down first," Sherlock had said to John, taking Rosie from him.

"No, but—"

"Just sit," Sherlock ordered him, pointing to the sofa.

Then Sherlock had proceeded to pace up and down the rug as he mused out loud over the rudiments of the case they had been working on. He held Rosie comfortably over one arm as he waited for signs that John Watson had relaxed enough to take his daughter back. But the consistent rocking as Sherlock paced, and the soothing tones of his postulations were enough to send young Watson to the depths of Sleepdom. And moments later, Watson Senior followed suit after stretching out along the sofa.

Sherlock placed Rosie on John's stomach and prodded his friend into placing protective arms around his daughter, before the detective swiftly left the flat, having solved the case during the time it took to put both Watsons to sleep.

But all that didn't give him the qualifications to be a f—. He obviously had shortcomings and failings he couldn't see. Rose knew this, which was why she had sent him away. Her baby was better off without a man like Sherlock Holmes as a parent. She had inferred as much. And who was he to argue with her?

But… Rose!

She was going to have a baby. She would be all alone with her pregnancy and then a small child…

_**I've made plans.** _

Plans that didn't involve Sherlock. Well, she had her family around her. And they provided accommodation, but not necessarily food. He'd been mistaken about the slight thickening around her waistline there. He supposed they'd provide the necessary support—both emotional and otherwise.

Such a huge upheaval in her life, once more, and she didn't find Sherlock an adequate partner to help her through it. She'd looked at Sherlock and found him lacking. Not suitable as a f— and not suitable as a partner.

Sherlock's chest grew tight and his breathing quite shallow.

"Sherlock?" came John's voice through the door.

"I'm fine," he replied. But he clearly wasn't.

"Uh… we'll be off if there's no…"

" _Fine!_ "

There was a moment's silence, before John answered with a dubious, "Yeah, okay."

Sherlock kept his head bowed. It wasn't fine and he wasn't okay. The greatest thing and the worst thing had happened, and he couldn't tell anybody about it, nor could he make everything right again.

* * *

Rose heard the scrambling and looked up to check the door latch and found it hanging loose. Too slow to leave the dining table where her books were spread out before her, she watched helplessly as the door swung inwards, preceded by a barely audible courtesy knock.

"Hiya!" came her cousin Pippa's daughter's cheery voice. Mia loved to announce exciting news, and her current expression told Rose the eight-year-old was about to do just that. "Uncle Ade's got something for yeh."

"Eh, weesht, you!" Adrian said, appearing in the doorway just as Mia hopped, skipped and jumped the handful of steps to the basement floor.

Rose's stomach dropped. She'd quite successfully avoided all social engagements over the weekend, preferring to nurse her pained heart and delve into the investigations needed to conduct successful Risk Assessments. Her part-time work in her Uncle Denis's office filled in the gaps over the weekend and she was thankful the week began with a gruelling assessment task. But Ade was definitely the last person she wanted to see, and on today of all days.

"Out!" Ade ordered Mia, and he waited til the wee bairn disappeared back upstairs before closing the door again.

Adrian held one hand behind his back as he descended the steps. Rose wished he hadn't passed through the main house in order to visit her bearing gifts, but it was raining, and she remembered locking the side gate. She'd left him no choice, really.

"It's just a…" He produced a single-stemmed red rose from behind his back.

Rose's eyes widened and her pulse accelerated. No! Not from Ade! And on Valentine's Day? But as he grinned broadly at her, standing on the other side of the table, a faint glimmer of hope lit in Rose's mind. There was a chance Ade was just the messenger. Perhaps a dubious-looking government vehicle had pulled up outside the house just as Ade arrived, and they had asked him to deliver the rose on behalf of a recently heart-broken anonymous Consulting Detective from London.

"Well, it's a bribe, really," Ade added, thereby squashing any hope Rose had of Sherlock insisting he wanted to remain in her life, despite the bombshell she'd dropped on him. "From me… and the lads," Ade continued, placing the flower on the table when it became clear Rose wasn't going to reach for it.

"What?" she asked.

Ade took the seat across from her, a serious expression on his face. He linked his fingers together and leant forward.

"We want to ask you a favour, actually."

Rose could feel her muscles tensing. To be asked a favour from a group of lads... this didn't sound good at all.

"Y'know Eddie?"

"Barely."

She'd met Adrian's friend Eddie on a couple of occasions. Nobody to write home about.

"Well… his brother's turning twenty-one."

Rose could feel her cheeks beginning to flush. Twenty-one. The blood rushing to her ears caused a faint ringing there.

"And… well, we had someone booked…"

This wasn't happening. Not… here… in Edinburgh.

"And one of the lads, well, he's a regular punter at… y'know…."

No. _Fucking hell._

"Ade," she said.

"And he said whatever you see on their profile, isn't what you—"

"Ade."

"—get. And there's a deposit y'have tae pay. So, we've pooled together…"

Rose stood up, her heart thumping.

"Fucking hell, Ade. Stop."

"What?" he said, his expression a mixture of bewilderment and amusement.

"Just… don't."

"It's a hundred pounds, Rosemarie."

"I said _don't_."

Adrian's brows knitted together. Was he genuinely confused, or just an arsehole?

"I thought you might need the cash, because—"

" _Get out!_ "

White hot fury surged through her. It was quite obvious what he was asking of her. Ade blinked, but remained where he sat.

"Rose—"

"I said, _get out!_ " She grabbed at the rose and threw it in his face. "And take your fucking—"

Ade slowly rose out of his seat.

"Hey—"

"—stupid flower…"

"I thought you'd appreciate the…"

"Out!"

Rose stormed over to the internal access door. She climbed the stairs and wrenched the door open. Tears pooled in her eyes. She couldn't believe she was being casually asked to strip for a mate's twenty-first birthday, from someone she thought was her friend.

Adrian turned to her. His look of innocence made Rose even more furious with him.

"Just look at y'self," he said, gesturing. "Your ten times more… well, y'wouldn't have tae take everything off. It's a hundred pounds! _I'd_ do it if I had yer chebs! And it's not as if you have tae do a rub 'n tug! Well, that could be extra."

In a second, Rose was on the ground. She slapped Ade hard across the face. There was a gasp behind her.

"Rosemarie!" exclaimed Pippa from the top of the stairs.

"Are y'too good fer us, is that it?" Ade said, rubbing his cheek.

Rose clenched her fists by her side, her jaw tightening. Adrian turned from her and thankfully ascended the steps. Pippa had her hands on her hips and she looked from Ade to Rose with a disapproving frown on her face.

Rose quickly took to the steps behind Adrian, then slammed the door just as Pippa began forming words probably to scold her with. Her heart thudded out of control and Rose sank down on the top of the stairs, unable to take another step. Fury and disgust rippled through her. Is this what she was to everybody here? Adrian spoke to her as if she had just left the adult entertainment industry yesterday.

Rose's tears began to flow freely now. And she hadn't even cried when Sherlock left. She had forced herself to shut off her emotions. This wasn't a part of her plans. Was she just a working girl who hadn't had the opportunity to make some money on the side yet? Was she kidding herself with her efforts to enter into a respectable career? The heavy burden of the life she had made here descended on her. She could never escape from her past, and the future path she had chosen for herself had become lost due to her continual fuck ups.

Would she ever make the right decision for herself? And how would she ever know which decisions were the right ones since she had ruined every chance of a good life so far?

For the first time since Rose had left London, she suddenly felt lost and truly alone.

* * *

Thinking out loud was one of the best ways to brainstorm the rudiments of a case or the solutions to a problem. The first time Mrs Hudson had removed his skull from the mantelpiece, Sherlock Holmes had discovered one benefit to having John Watson as a potential flatmate. A mobile skull! But these days, unless John was physically moving, Sherlock found his colleague would succumb to the comfort of the sofa and promptly fall asleep. It was all those restless nights tending to his daughter's needs, apparently. Why couldn't the man work out how to function in the world on less sleep? And Mary was no better.

Luckily Sherlock had discovered another skull. Another Watson. And this Watson didn't distract Sherlock with trivial matters.

Several weeks after Sherlock had left Edinburgh, he discovered the necessity to remove Rosie Watson from her parents' grasp whenever he had an important detail to impart to them. This occurred both in 221B and in their house, whenever Sherlock invited himself over for tea. They would fuss and speculate and argue over whatever Rosie's _needs_ were, _taking their attention away from_ _Sherlock._ Why couldn't they do multiple things at once?

So Sherlock would relieve them of their baby, immediately deducing her needs—well, it was child's play really: a cry for the bottle was vastly different to a protest at the discomfort a dirty nappy brought her. A whimper to turn her around, because staring at the wallpaper was boring, was nothing like her protests that she wanted to go to sleep. Immediately! How could they not differentiate?

He changed her nappy while speculating about the severed arm found washed ashore near Vauxhall Bridge. He rocked her to sleep while texting Lestrade _one-handed_ the solution to the Shoreditch Strangler, and he discussed with John his most recent email cases while holding Rosie on his lap with her contentedly sucking on the set of keys he held.

"You know that's unhygienic," John remarked.

"Why would that matter?" Sherlock replied, frowning at the email. "So he may have been stabbed with his partner's steak knife, but a bacterial infection is the least of his worries."

"No. I'm talking about Rosie. And the keys."

"Oh." Sherlock removed the keys from his God-daughter's mouth, prompting her immediate protests. "Well, she's almost at the hand to mouth phase. You need to buy her something suitable for her to grasp and taste."

John had sighed.

Sherlock found something cathartic in conferring with Rosamund Mary Watson the many things that puzzled and troubled him. When neither her parents nor Mrs Hudson were within earshot, Sherlock would sometimes tell Rosie all about Rose and his difficulties there. He'd told no one else. The situation wasn't resolved, and in his own mind, it was baffling, and there were too many feelings involved. And so he preferred musing out loud to Rosie Watson and nobody else.

"She obviously still loves me," he said one evening, when the Watsons were out on a "date night" and Mrs Hudson was downstairs cooking them a couple of meals they could freeze and have later in the week. Sherlock cradled Rosie in one arm, giving her an evening bottle feed, as he sat in his armchair by the fire. "But she thinks I'm an unsuitable candidate."

He frowned, at a loss as to how he could prove to Rose otherwise. Just how did someone decide that another person wasn't going to be a good parent? Obviously Sherlock had his moments. "If only there was a test," he said, gazing down at Rosie as she continued sucking from her bottle. She held tightly onto Sherlock's pinkie as her darkened pupils locked on his. "I s'pose there are family court cases going on all the time. But I don't want to go to court." Rosie's stare was unwavering and she sometimes unclenched her tiny fingers and batted Sherlock's finger. "Yes, I know. You think I should talk to her. Even now. But it's been over a month."

How did he let it get so far along? Rose would think he didn't care, but he'd been considering every option. It always came back to the same thing: Rose didn't want him in their lives; she didn't think he'd make a good father.

"Yes, I can say 'father' now," he told Rosie. "I know, I'm your Godfather, but that was more of an emphasis on me being God-like than being a father-figure. Okay, don't look at me like that. You know I'm of a superior mind. But that's just it. How come ordinary people are fine being parents? Just look at your own, for example. Yes, I know, there's parental love and support, the feeling of security and all that rubbish. But that's the sort of romantic tosh that's going to get you into trouble some day."

There were hurried footsteps on the staircase, signalling Mrs Hudson's arrival. She appeared in the doorway holding a couple of Tupperware containers.

"Oh," she said with great affection. "Look at you both."

"Look at us both what?" Sherlock asked.

Mrs Hudson continued on into the kitchen.

"Now don't let John and Mary forget these," she said, heading towards the fridge.

"Why? Where are you going?"

Sherlock rearranged Rosie into an upright position since she'd drained the last of the contents of her bottle as Mrs Hudson put the food into the fridge.

"Just going to… ooh!" The landlady turned around, momentarily distracted by Rosie's guttural burp. "That's a good girl."

"It's the release of air from her gastrointestinal tract," Sherlock said, with a semi-eyeroll. "I don't know why you get excited each time."

"Because it might cause problems later if she doesn't get rid of it," Mrs Hudson said.

Sherlock rose from his seat, bringing both Rosie and the empty bottle into the kitchen.

"That must feel better now," Mrs Hudson said to Rosie, her voice at a higher pitch, prompting Sherlock to tut.

" _For Christ's sake,_ " he muttered under his breath. Why must people speak to babies in a voice that wasn't their own? "Here," he said, handing Rosie over to her Godmother.

Mrs Hudson cooed and clucked and made annoying noises as Sherlock took the bottle over to the sink and began to rinse it out. In response, Rosie hiccupped the beginnings of a protest.

"Oh," the landlady said. "She never likes me holding her straight after you."

Sherlock smiled to himself as he continued cleaning the bottle. He shook it upside-down a couple of times, then set it on the drainer as Mrs Hudson attempted to soothe her God-daughter.

"Here, love," she said finally, bringing Rosie back to Sherlock while he was drying his hands on a tea towel. "I was going to have a bath. John and Mary are later than I thought they'd be. Probably enjoying having a quiet conversation without interruptions."

"I know how they feel," Sherlock murmured. He didn't mind having his God-daughter back. He hadn't quite finished his postulations about Rose.

"Oh, you're such a natural," Mrs Hudson cooed, as Rosie succumbed to Sherlock's soothing back rubs. The baby nestled her head into the crook of his neck.

"A natural what?"

"A natural dad!" Mrs Hudson announced, with a tiny chuckle.

Sherlock's skin prickled. Now _that_ he wasn't expecting. Usually his landlady rabbited on about nonsense things. Perhaps this was a topic worth listening to.

He settled into his armchair again, and asked, "What are you talking about?"

"You. And Rosie. She doesn't go to just anybody, you know."

"Clearly."

"And you have such a way with her. Look at her."

Sherlock didn't need to look at his God-daughter. The tiny bundle was growing heavy on his chest. She was almost asleep. He could feel the faint tickle of her breath on his neck. And she smelt like baby lotion and shampoo, which Sherlock found comforting somehow.

Mrs Hudson was looking down at them both, tears almost glistening in her eyes. Sherlock frowned at her.

"It's such a shame," she lamented.

"What is?"

"Well, you're not going to have any of your own, so it seems like such a waste."

"I'm not...?"

"You're not the sort," Mrs Hudson declared. She turned from them and made her way to the living room door.

"What do you mean?"

The landlady stopped in the doorway.

"Well, I mean, you're always dashing about. When you're not meditating in your armchair, that is, all closed off from the world. There's always the next case to solve. You can't be running here and there when you've got a baby."

Wait… Sherlock thought. There was something in that.

"I've always thought," Mrs Hudson continued, "Poor Mr and Mrs Holmes. It's the end of the line for them. No grandchildren. Oh! But you know the married boys who live at Mrs Turner's—"

"Aren't you supposed to be having a bath?" Sherlock said.

With a light chuckle, his landlady disappeared downstairs. Sherlock brooded for a moment. But there was a faint glimmer of hope in her words. All along, he'd been thinking he wasn't qualified to be a father, and that Rose thought so, too. Perhaps that wasn't the case at all. Maybe Rose was thinking along the same lines as Mrs Hudson—that he was far too busy running around solving cases. Or that he wouldn't want to give up being a Consulting Detective for fatherhood. But why should one exclude the other? Just this evening he'd solved three email cases while juggling Rosie and her needs. Sherlock Holmes wasn't just anybody. He was a genius-detective _and_ a natural father. Mrs Hudson had said so! He could be both!

Sherlock's heart lifted at the thought. Hold on. What was he thinking? Was he going to convince Rose of this fact? Was he going to...

But she'd made her own plans that didn't involve Sherlock. Maybe all he had to do was—

Rose's words echoed through Sherlock's mind once more. Suddenly, he saw them in a whole new light.

_**I'm taking full responsibility and I've already made my decision. One that has nothing to do with you. I've made plans…** _

He suddenly leapt out of his chair, startling Rosie in the process. He ignored her broken cries for the moment as he strode toward the landing.

"Mrs Hudson!" he yelled. "Oh, God, sorry," he added to Rosie, quickly patting her back when she continued fussing. Then he held a hand over her head, covering the ear that wasn't pressed against his chest and called for his landlady again.

But there was no way she'd hear him over the shower. Rosie's protests grew louder, so he shifted her onto his shoulder and gently rubbed her back.

"I'm sorry," he said soothingly.

Just what did he think he was going to do? If Rose had made the decision he suspected she may have, then he was too late. It had been over a month since he'd left Edinburgh, and surely it was past the time now that she could've…

_But she wouldn't._

Sherlock's heart beat furiously and he was finding it hard to think over Rosie's cries.

_Would she?_

He paced this way and that, but he knew his agitated state would only further Rosie's discomfort.

"I'm sorry," he whispered to her, stopping to hold the infant firmly against his chest. Sherlock drew in a calming breath and released it slowly, closing his eyes as he did so. "I'm sorry," he whispered again. He began pacing once more, establishing a regular rhythm and trying to take his mind off Rose and her decision.

_I'm too late._

"Shhh," he said soothingly to Rosie as her cries died down to a whimper.

_I'm sorry._

Rosie drew her knees up, and Sherlock nestled her head into his neck.

"I'm sorry, Rose," he said, as felt an enormous pressure against his tear ducts. What had she done? If only he'd turned around and headed straight back to Edinburgh the moment he recalled what she had told him. Why hadn't he?

Sherlock ducked his head and felt Rosie's soft downy hair against his cheek. "We might be too late, Rosie," he said softly. Sherlock stood stock still. Rosie was silent but not quite asleep yet.

He moved toward his armchair and sank down into it, thinking he was often wrong in regard to reading Rose these days. There was a possibility he was wrong this time. He certainly hoped so. _She's going to have my... baby_ , he thought, his heart sinking deep into his chest. _Our... baby_. _Or is she?_

"Tomorrow," he whispered to Rosie, gently rubbing her back once more. "I'm going back tomorrow."


	77. You've Isolated Yourself

Rose cast an expert eye over the young man who had stuttered out his name. Josh—if that was his real name at all—had the distinct mannerisms of a first timer. She gave him an encouraging smile. Not too enthusiastically. She didn't want him to think she was about to eat him alive. Just enough for him to feel warmed by the gesture and find that he'd be in safe hands. It was Rose's duty to make him feel comfortable, to direct him and encourage him, so he'd want to come back again.

The regulars were always easy to spot—some walked with a swagger, feeling perfectly comfortable giving Rose the once over and gifting her with an appreciative leer.

But Josh barely made eye contact. He hitched up his jeans, which were in danger of falling down, and entered the room, looking nervously around. Rose gave a deep sigh and followed him in, closing the door firmly behind them.

This was her life now, two nights per week. And why not? She was obviously good at what she did. Her time spent in London had not been wasted. She stifled a yawn. It was the late nights that were doing her in. She'd go back to the hovel she called home, wash herself of the dregs of society, and spend the rest of the night studying.

* * *

Sherlock stayed in the shadows of the building opposite. It had been a while since he'd smoked; he had been doing so well on the whole abstinence thing. But being here, and seeing the folk who turned up at the door, made him itch a little.

He hadn't seen Rose, but she may have arrived earlier than he had. He knew she'd be here. A quick visit to Craig the Hacker that morning had yielded a bounty of information regarding Rose. And what he'd discovered had made his heart sink.

"Well," said Craig, "You said to check everywhere, and everyone on this list… hospitals and the like." Craig pointed to the screen, revealing an admission to the Edinburgh Royal Infirmary. "Sulford… right?"

He now had a list of addresses for Rose's new residence in a dubious area of Edinburgh and multiple places of work. She'd been keeping busy, clearly out of financial necessity. Her emotional state was something that wasn't kept on any database Craig could hack into. Sherlock wondered how she was faring. Well, he was about to find out.

He sighed and lit his second cigarette. How long should he give her? Fifteen minutes? Thirty?

In the end, he waited forty-five minutes before he approached the door to the community centre. Standing inside the foyer area, Sherlock could see the session that was underway through the glass panel of the door to the adjoining room. Rose sat with the others, their chairs positioned in a makeshift circle, with her back to the door. The man Sherlock had deduced as the group leader sat on her right. He wore a particularly loud, multi-coloured jacket and brown trousers. Sherlock read a multitude of sins in the man's clothing alone.

Rainbow jacket's attention was drawn to the door, and he leant toward Rose and said a word or two, obviously alerting her to Sherlock's presence. Sherlock stepped back from the door. Through the tiny window, he could see Rose's chair was now vacant. This was the moment he'd been anticipating all day. His heart leapt into his throat and stayed there until Rose opened the door.

Her eyes widened at the sight of him.

"Sherlock," she gasped.

Rose quickly exited the meeting room, shutting the door behind her. Sherlock had opened his mouth in greeting, but the words he was planning to use died away. He was taken aback by the sight of Rose. She wore a slim-fitting dark red top over a long skirt. The top accentuated her bust, but thankfully didn't reveal her cleavage. More importantly, the clingy fabric revealed the tiny swell of her abdomen.

"Ah," he began, but most of the air had already left his lungs. "Am I too late to join the… ah… cocaine addiction recovery support… group?"

Her expression was unmoving, and she quickly inhaled.

"Sherlock."

"Obviously, that's not what I'm here for," Sherlock added, the words tumbling out. His gaze dropped to Rose's tiny baby bump again. Because that's what it was, wasn't it? A bump of a baby. She was still carrying _their_ baby. _His_... baby. "But… um…" He drew in a much-needed breath, but his head still felt light and dizzy. _He was wrong about her plans!_ At least, what the worst of her plans could have been _._ Sherlock had never been so relieved to be wrong before. And Rose looked… apart from a bit alarmed at his presence, and a little peaky… she looked… breathtakingly beautiful. His former definition of _beauty_ didn't take into account the emotions he would have to surrender when presented with the love of his life carrying the beginnings of his child.

"We... need to talk," he continued. "I've been slow. Stupidly slow. And I'm sorry it took me so long—"

"Sherlock. I'm kind of in the middle of something here."

Rose gestured behind her toward the meeting room.

"Not really in the middle," Sherlock replied. "You only have fifteen minutes left of the session. They run for an hour don't they? And then you serve tea and biscuits to the recovering addicts, which I'm sure they appreciate. You wouldn't have any ginger nuts by any chance?"

Rose looked decidedly uncomfortable and she shifted where she stood. Sherlock had expected at least a smile from her for his quip, but one hand stole across her stomach, before she quickly removed it.

"I can't talk to you right now," she said.

"That's… fine," Sherlock replied. He was just grateful she hadn't ordered him to leave.

"But there's a café around the corner," she added. "It's open late—"

"I've seen it."

"So, I'll meet you there afterwards. You'll have to give me a few minutes. Adam and I have to clean up… I have to sweep… and…"

"It's fine, Rose. But I'll wait outside." He gestured to the foyer doors. "I'm not comfortable with you walking around the block at this time of night."

Rose gave Sherlock an appreciative smile, one that didn't quite meet her eyes.

"Okay," she said, with a tiny sigh.

Before he could think of anything else to say, Rose turned and disappeared back into the meeting room.

Sherlock spent the next fifteen minutes alternately pacing outside, clenching and unclenching his fists and flicking his fingers—all in an effort to avoid smoking the next cigarette. Finally, the participants of the support group started to emerge in clumps and singles. Some members, like the young man who made every second step by hitching up his jeans, were greeted by outsiders who had arrived to give them a lift. Trouser-hiker was hugged by somebody who looked like his mother. She was valiantly holding back tears.

 _Wayward son. Finally receiving treatment and support for his cocaine addiction. Clearly his first night attending. And supported by Rose, too. He_ _'s_ _in safe hands,_ Sherlock thought.

He knew the drill. As a twenty-something cocaine addict himself, his brother made him attend a support group such as this. A decade ago now. Sherlock lasted three minutes. The first thirty seconds were spent listening to some tosser lying his way through supposedly sharing his life story. Sherlock interrupted him, pointing out the man's contradictory statements and then proceeded to spend the next two minutes and thirty seconds telling everybody else's life stories on their behalf. Unfortunately, he also gave away the tiny detail of one of the other members selling his wares before the evening had began, thus also confessing to being high himself during the session because of the aforementioned drug dealer.

Holmes the Younger was ejected from the meeting and never had to attend another support group again. Even the rehabilitation he had received before Christmas last year had involved private therapy sessions—such as they were.

The younger version of Sherlock Holmes would never had envisaged his future self in the position in which he now found himself—pursuing a woman with a view to continuing a relationship and stating his commitment to both the woman and her unborn child. Romantic entanglement, as Sherlock had come to believe sometime in his youth, while fulfilling for other people, was not for him, for his brain had come to govern his heart. There was a reason for this—the idea of not getting involved with people on an emotional level—but the origins had long ago escaped him. He had even become detached from his parents. The world was safer then. That's all he knew. At least, until he had met John Watson, and later, Rose Sulford. In fact, there was now a small group of people with whom he shared some affection.

Finally, the lights in the community centre were switched off and Rose emerged followed by Adam in his technicolour therapy-coat.

Rose spied Sherlock across the street. She said something to Adam and they both looked in his direction. Thankfully, Rose appeared to bid Adam a goodbye before she hastened across the road to join Sherlock.

"Everything turn out okay?" Sherlock asked, not really caring, but wanting to kickstart the conversation. "No emotional breakdowns, heckling, or inappropriate deductions?"

To his surprise, Rose emitted a tiny chuckle.

"Inappropriate deductions aren't something that normally happens in a support group," she said.

"You'd be surprised."

They lapsed into silence since Rose didn't ask Sherlock to explain what he meant, and nor did she elaborate any further on how her evening went. He had a hundred questions to ask her, but he didn't want to upset her before they'd even reached the café.

"Adam's okay," Rose volunteered as they rounded the corner. "He means well."

Sherlock cleared his throat, attempting to prevent himself from voicing his immediate thoughts.

"He makes sure I get home safely on the nights I volunteer here," Rose added.

"And then goes home and fantasises about you."

Rose stopped before the door of the café.

"Sorry?" she asked.

Sherlock smiled meekly.

"Inappropriate deduction. Ignore me."

Rose gave Sherlock a sideways glance before pulling open the door to the café. She said, "He's qualified to facilitate the Self-management and Recovery Training sessions." Sherlock stifled a yawn. "He said I can undertake the training as well, and then I can facilitate other sessions around Edinburgh. But I don't know." She sighed as she surveyed the seating area of the café. "It's not where I ultimately want to devote my time."

Sherlock knew what Rose was doing. Her intentions were the same as his—at least, initially: keep talking to fill the silence before someone says something of importance. But there was an elephant in the room, or rather, a foetus in the womb, and someone was going to have to say something about it sooner or later.

"Earl Grey?" Sherlock asked Rose.

"Yes, please. I'll get us a table."

So far, so pleasant.

When Sherlock joined Rose in the booth she had chosen, she was typing on her phone.

"Notes," she offered by way of an explanation when Sherlock slid onto the soft vinyl seat across from her. "For next week."

Sherlock watched her in silence for a few seconds before he steeled himself for the conversation he was about to instigate.

"Rose," he said.

A flicker of uncertainty crossed her features before she stopped typing and placed her phone down. But the mask was back just as quickly. With the exception of the first few seconds of laying eyes on Sherlock this evening, he was quite sure Rose was catching her emotions before they betrayed her.

Sherlock leant forward and dropped his voice to a confidential pitch.

"I'm sorry about your mother."

Again there was a hint of a reaction before Rose averted her gaze. She cast her eyes around the room and remained fully composed except for one clenched hand. What was going on with her? Sherlock knew, thanks to his personal hacker, that Sandra Sulford had suffered a massive stroke and died in the Edinburgh Royal Infirmary two days later. He was sure this family tragedy had a lot to do with Rose's new residence, away from her extended family.

Finally, her eyes met Sherlock's again.

"Why are you here?"

This wasn't how Sherlock thought the conversation would go. This was like talking to a suspect just before Sherlock deduced their crime.

He drew in a calming breath and said, "I thought it would be obvious." When Rose didn't respond in any way, he continued, choosing his words carefully. "You sent me away by making a decision on my behalf." He kept his eyes firmly on Rose, even though she kept looking away. Was she even listening? Sherlock kept his voice low and steady, regardless. "I didn't even realise there was a choice I could make—an alternative response. But I understand now, and—"

"But it's been almost two months."

So she _was_ listening. Sherlock noted the accusatory tone in her voice and tried not to take it to heart.

"Yes," he replied. "I was slow. Too slow. I'm an idiot." He waited until his nerves settled before he spoke again. "When faced with a number of alternatives for whatever your plans were, I couldn't fathom why you wanted me to leave. Not after the day we had together." Sherlock could feel his chest growing tight again. Rose's apparent indifferent attitude was getting to him. "And quite frankly, I'm done with trying to deduce the meaning behind your actions, Rose."

His remark brought Rose's attention back to him. She frowned—the first signs of an emotion that stuck.

"But let me tell you what I _do_ know," he added. "You're pregnant—thirteen or fourteen weeks. I'm not sure. I lost count somewhere along the way. And you're carrying _our_ _…_ baby." Rose's expression was beginning to soften and her eyes were glistening. "They're the facts you and I both possess. Now let me tell you something you don't know." Sherlock's confidence grew when he saw Rose's eyes grow wider. "I'm going to accept my role… my responsibilities in this… your pregnancy, and… parenthood."

He stopped, for his throat felt constricted. This was the first time he'd spoken the words out loud and they reverberated inside his head. He laced his fingers together underneath the table and squeezed. He had Rose's full attention now. Her mouth gaped a little, as if she wanted to say something, but no words could come out.

"Now, I don't know if you still… love me," he said. It had pained him to think this was a possibility—it had been almost two months, like Rose had said—but Sherlock was trying to be practical and he couldn't tell what Rose's feelings for him were right now. He cleared his throat and continued on, his voice still low. "But I will support you financially, emotionally, whatever you like, and from a distance, if you don't want anything to do with me. I don't know what happened to bring about the change in your circumstances here, but they don't look good from where I sit. But here's something else you may have forgotten." He paused for effect, because he knew his next statement had to stand out from the rest. "I love you."

His words had the desired effect. Tears pooled in Rose's eyes and she gave a small gasp.

"Rose, I still love you," he added for emphasis.

Rose glanced around the room as if wanting to escape from the moment, before she bowed her head, a sob escaping into her hand. Sherlock sat frozen, partly in smug satisfaction for finally provoking a true emotional response from her, and partly because he didn't know how she'd receive physical reassurances from him. And if he did move around to hug her, he would have to do it in a public place. There was also that.

There was a smattering of people about the café. A couple did glance in their direction, Sherlock noted.

But he had to put his own discomfort aside. This was all about convincing Rose he was emotionally invested in her and her situation. He couldn't just sit there and watch her cry.

Sherlock was just about to slide out of his side of the booth when a waitress arrived with their tea. He stopped where he was and the young woman shot him an angry look as Rose continued to shudder into her hands. Sherlock offered the waitress a weak smile, but she gave him a disapproving frown in return. Thankfully, she left them in peace.

Sherlock sighed in relief, slipped out of his seat, and joined Rose on the other side of the table. He put an arm around her.

"It's okay."

Rose continued to sniff and sob, her face shielded by her hands. Sherlock held her tightly and gently rubbed her arm.

"It's going to be okay."

From this close proximity, Sherlock could smell her hair and the familiar scent of apple-pear shampoo. When had she started using that one again? This sent a myriad of signals along his olfactory system, and Sherlock suddenly felt an overwhelming sense of calm with just a sprinkling of longing.

But Rose didn't turn or lean into his embrace. Instead, she appeared to stiffen. She straightened up and shrugged her shoulders, prompting Sherlock to loosen his hold.

"Sherlock, don't," she whispered, with one final sniff.

This felt like a stab to the heart and he withdrew his embrace.

"Rose…"

But Rose turned to her bag, rummaged around then produced a tissue. Suddenly she was away from him, saying, "I need some air," before sliding out of the booth.

Sherlock's chest heaved in disappointment, before he, too, left their table and hastened outside to join Rose on the pavement. But Rose kept going, taking strides along the street back toward the community centre.

"Rose." Sherlock caught up with her at the kerb. "Where are you going?"

"Home," she said, checking the street in both directions for traffic. "I've got a bus to catch."

Before she could step out into the street, Sherlock grabbed her arm.

"Wait!"

"Sherlo—"

"Have the courtesy of finishing our conversation." He didn't let go of her arm, prompting her to turn and face him. Tears formed in her eyes once more.

"Sherlock."

"This is getting ridiculous now. I've been very patient, Rose. We're talking about our—"

"I don't have time for this!" Rose pulled her arm out of his grasp. "If you were so clever about finding where I was tonight, why didn't you go one step further and figure out I've got work to do before tomorrow! I don't want you or need you! I've got everything sorted!"

"No, you don't," he said calmly. "You've probably missed the last bus, and there's only a matter of time before Adam the Gallant propositions you. You spend far too much time volunteering, meaning you have no down time, what with you studying all the time, not to mention your paid work at the coffee shop—this coffee shop—and a pub some evenings. And look at you. You're practically malnourished, which can't be good for a developing foetus. Your hormones are all over the shop and you live in a share house that has a limited hot water supply."

"Stop it."

Waving a flippant hand at her, Sherlock added, "There's too much shampoo residue left in your hair. You can't stand being in the shower for too long. It's freezing."

"I said _stop it_!"

"Rose," he said with a sigh. "Talk to me properly. You're better than this."

Rose seemed to grow even more tense as she looked along the street as if to check for the bus that wasn't going to arrive. Exhaling a shaky breath, her shoulders dropped and she lifted her eyes to Sherlock's.

"I have to get home," she said, all hope having left her voice. "Can we discuss this tomorrow afternoon? I have to deliver a tutorial in the morning and I need to finish preparing it." There was a quiet desperation in her tone that Sherlock didn't fail to notice. "This is a important to me. Please, Sherlock."

Her words, _I don't want you or need you_ , stuck in his mind, but her plea momentarily overrode everything. Sherlock was sure she didn't mean her dismissal with everything else he was beginning to read about her. But he was always wrong!

"We can discuss it now," Sherlock said warmly. He gestured along the road and added, "I'll drive you home. We'll talk in the car."

Rose followed his gaze. Sherlock had parked his new purchase a little way along the street past the café they had just left.

"I didn't want you on the back of the motorbike in your condition," he added with a reassuring smile.

Silently, Rose seemed to acquiesce, and they both made their way over to the midnight blue sedan, which was almost invisible in the darkened street. Sherlock had bought it as soon as he'd arrived in Edinburgh that day. He'd had quite a bit of time on the train from London to Newcastle to think about the support he'd give Rose. He'd leave this car for her. But first things first…

They drove in silence for a few minutes before Rose told him she'd failed her last essay for this particular unit, despite receiving an extension, and that's why the tutorial she had to deliver tomorrow was so important. She spoke in the same uninflected tone she'd used earlier.

"You've taken too much on," Sherlock said, then immediately regretted it. He was sounding judgmental. Now who was he resembling?

Rose lapsed into silence. Sherlock decided he really had to keep going with his argument. He did have a captive audience right now—quite literally.

"I only want the best for you, and our… baby." Sooner or later he was going to stop hesitating when referring to his… offspring. Sherlock detected, rather than heard, Rose emitting a small sigh. "And don't think for one second," he added, "that I'm just going to go back to London and leave you in the same state in which I found you."

" _Found me?"_ Rose repeated, the resentment clear in her tone. "I'm not _lost,_ Sherlock!"

"Oh, come on, Rose. You know what I mean."

"This isn't the way home," she said petulantly, looking through her window.

"It's not the same route the bus takes," Sherlock replied. "And I'm betting Adam takes the long way round."

Rose muttered under her breath something Sherlock didn't quite catch.

But he inhaled deeply, then continued.

"You volunteer twice a week at the centre so you can help drug addicts. Addicts, Rose, who have decided they need help and will accept it from you. But you can't see that _you_ need help and support—"

"I don't—"

"This is where you're living now," he said, as they turned the corner into Rose's street. "It's a long way from Leinster Gardens, isn't it?"

He was hoping Rose would see her surroundings through fresh eyes. And, as if to support his statement, a young woman, who Sherlock could see was quite obviously a sex worker, hastened along the street.

"Oh, God. Just pull over," Rose said.

"What?"

"Pull over! Here!"

"Why?" Sherlock asked as he slowed the vehicle a few metres from the house he knew was Rose's new home.

When the car came to a complete stop, Rose shoved her bag aside and leapt out. She hastened over to the sex worker as Sherlock brought the car to the kerb. He glanced in the rearview mirror and saw the woman turn to Rose who was obviously saying something to her. The woman yelled some obscenity at Rose, then shoved her. Sherlock was out of the car in a flash, but Rose had only staggered backwards and had swiftly recovered.

"Rose," he said.

"Annabelle!" she called out to the young woman who was rapidly disappearing into the darkness of the poorly lit street.

Another woman holding a screaming baby emerged from Rose's residence.

"Leave her, Rosemarie," she called from the doorstep.

"Are you all right?" Sherlock said to Rose as he approached her.

"I'm fine."

Rose continued on to the house with a determined stride.

"Why'd you let her go?" she said accusingly to the woman who stood in the doorway.

Sherlock looked on in mild interest at the melodrama that was unfolding before him.

"Because I've had it with her. I'm calling social services in the mornin'."

Rose stood on the top of the step and conferred with this second woman, while the howling baby almost drowned them out. Rose looked toward Sherlock momentarily before she let the woman and infant re-enter the house. Sherlock was just about to lock the car and join Rose when she hurried back to the kerb.

"Can you take me to the shop around the corner?" she asked.

"Why?"

Rose explained that Annabelle had neglected to buy more formula for her baby. The infant had been left in the care of Olivia, the woman Rose had been conferring with.

During the entire journey around the block, Sherlock fought to hold his tongue. Through the shop window, however, he saw Rose delving into her bag for change and coming up short. With a deep sigh, she handed over her credit card.

 _Oh, for Christ's sake_ , Sherlock thought.

"Please don't say anything," Rose said as she climbed back into the car. "We support each other. That's all you need to know."

Could she tell Sherlock was fuming? Clearly she was attempting to give help and support to the entire population of Edinburgh rather than admit to herself that she also needed help.

And _she_ was supposed to be the psychologist.

When they pulled up at her house, Sherlock gently held Rose's arm before she could leave the car.

"Wait," he said. "Just listen for a second." Rose frowned, but she remained in her seat holding the large tin of formula in her lap. "I know you can only think about tonight, rather than the rest of your life, so hear what I want to offer you."

Rose appeared resigned enough to listen and didn't display any agitation about having to get the baby formula inside. Sherlock wouldn't need long anyway.

"I've got a place—rented a flat, actually—only a few minutes from your campus. There's two bedrooms, one with an ensuite, so you can take that one and I'll happily have the smaller room. I'll let you study all night, uninterrupted by crying babies. I'll bring you cups of tea, if you like. There's a loaf of bread for toast in the morning and a jar of that black cherry jam you like. You can come and go as you please all day, and when you're ready… we can talk."

Rose's eyes became rounder and shinier, but then she frowned. Sherlock knew she was just about to protest, so he swiftly added, "You may think you don't need help, Rose, but look around you. You've been slipping and sliding for some time now. You probably haven't noticed. But I'm sure this isn't what you had planned for yourself when you left London."

Rose was trying in vain to hold back her tears.

"But it's…" she said, struggling with a voice thickened by emotion. "It's not what I wanted for _you_."

Sherlock swallowed hard. It was just as he suspected and thanks to Mrs Hudson.

"You're Sherlock Holmes," Rose said, braving a half-smile. "You're made for bigger and better things. England needs you. I won't burden you with this. Just let me go, Sherlock."

Rose looked like she had come to the end all that she could manage. She had finally told him the truth, and she was putting herself through hell just to spare him a bit of inconvenience.

"You're wrong, Rose," he said. "Don't you remember me telling you once that I don't date? How far have we come since then? Thanks to you, I've changed, and I'll continue to change, for the better."

"But you—"

"Here," he said, reaching into this jacket for his mobile phone. He swiftly navigated to the video app and handed the phone over to Rose. A still of the last video he had recorded was displayed on the screen. It showed part of the wall of his bedroom at a peculiar angle. The phone was in motion when he had hastily pressed record last night.

"What's this?" Rose asked.

"A character reference."

Sherlock looked on as Rose pressed Play. The hearty chuckle of a three month old baby came through the speakers, then the camera angle shifted awkwardly and only half of her face was shown. Dark curls of a mostly unseen adult appeared in one corner of the screen before there was the distinctive sound of a raspberry being blown on the belly of the baby.

Rosie Watson burst into rich laughter once more before her image filled the frame properly this time. Sherlock's voice was heard, saying, "Now calm down. You're embarrassing yourself."

Rosie cooed and gurgled, her arms outstretched. Tiny bubbles formed on her lips as she experimented with different sounds, looking up to the man holding the camera phone.

"Now let's get back to the case," Sherlock was heard saying to the smiling infant. "I believe you were onto something."

The video stopped with the image of a contented Rosie frozen on the screen.

"Who was that?" Rose asked, handing back Sherlock's phone.

"My God-daughter, Rosie Watson. I probably shouldn't have got her all worked up like that. She was supposed to be going to sleep, but she needed her nappy changed, and then one thing led to another. Entirely her own fault."

Rose gave Sherlock a tiny smile.

"I solved three cases that evening," he told her, feeling encouraged. "Two via email and one through Twitter. John and Mary were out on a date night, and Mrs Hudson and I were babysitting. So, you see, Rose. I'm perfectly capable and more than willing to do my share."

Rose appeared to shrink into the seat a little and she stared out of her window toward the house.

"Why don't you take the formula inside," Sherlock urged. "And if you decide to take me up on my offer, I'll be waiting for you out here."

Rose silently left the car. Sherlock would've thought that that wasn't a good sign, but she hesitated at the door to the house and looked back at him before she entered. She would be back, he thought. Plus there was the fairly suggestive fact that she had left her handbag on the floor of the passenger seat.

Again Sherlock longed for a cigarette when one minute turned into five and then fifteen. He wound down the window, thinking perhaps he'd smoke just half of one, but the door to the house opened. Sherlock's heart swelled when he saw Rose emerge carrying her familiar backpack possibly laden with books plus a smaller sports bag. He left the car and hastened to open the rear door for her.

"You all right?" he asked Rose once they were back inside the car. Sherlock thought she'd been crying for most of the time she'd spent back inside. It pained him to see the evidence written on her face. She took a moment to compose herself.

"Did you look at me," she began, struggling to keep her voice steady, "and see that I wasn't going to make it?" Her eyes implored him, but before Sherlock could answer, she added, "Because you're right. I won't… make it. I realise that now." Tears welled in her eyes and she quickly wiped them with the back of her hand. "I can't do it, Sherlock. Not alone. _"_

Sherlock's heart went out to her. She'd tried for so long to do everything herself. He knew her cry for help didn't come easily for her.

He reached for Rose's hand and said, "You're not alone. Not anymore."


	78. Permission to Have an Ordinary Life

Rose tipped her head back and allowed the water to rinse the conditioner from her hair. She'd probably spent a good twenty minutes in the shower now, with the water as hot as she could stand it. Sherlock was right about the hot water in the share house in Niddrie. She'd forgotten how soothing a warm shower could be. Unfortunately, his other deductions about her were also spot on, despite his earlier statement about not being able to read her.

Rose bowed her head once more, a great wracking sob escaping her. The contrast between where she'd ended up and where she'd started from went beyond access to a warm shower. Relief and despair both flooded through her. She'd held out for so long. She thought she was coping. It was a rude awakening to learn she hadn't been.

Sherlock's voice through the ensuite door, telling her he'd made her a cup of tea, jolted her out of her depressive reflection.

Rose took a moment to compose herself, then called back, "I'll be out in a minute!" making sure her voice was steady and light. She knew she wouldn't fool him for a second.

She shut off the water. The poor man, she thought, stepping out and grabbing her towel from the nearby hook. She told him she'd have a shower because she was only going to be quick. She had to study. Her whole world revolved around her university course, even when that world was crumbling beneath her feet.

Sherlock had pointed out the main bathroom earlier, with its roll-top bathtub, and Rose had looked at it longingly, before practicalities ruled out the idea of a long soak. But then she'd spent far too much time in the ensuite shower anyway. He was always thinking of her! He'd found a self-contained holiday apartment that had a bathtub, just for her. Rose shuddered to think how expensive the rate per night was.

"This isn't close to uni," she'd remarked earlier, when they had pulled up outside the apartment in Edinburgh's West End.

"Closer than where you were," Sherlock said with a half-smile. And he was right. It took her almost an hour by bus to get from Niddrie to the Sighthill campus. "And besides," he added, "I prefer the beating heart of a city, rather than it's dull extremities."

The apartment close to Edinburgh's 'beating heart' lay in the basement of a listed house on the corner of a boutique shopping district. Rose had been in this area once before, when she and Pippa were looking to buy a present for Pippa's mother. The woman only ever wanted the best, otherwise, one shouldn't bother. They'd browsed a quaint gift shop not far from here, with Pippa lamenting she couldn't really afford anything.

A sense of shame rippled through Rose as she slowly dried herself. Her shame went well with every other negative emotion she had about herself. Sherlock was so good to her, and she'd pushed him away and broken his heart more than once. She didn't deserve such a good man.

After entering the main bedroom, Rose dressed in a t-shirt and trackpants. Her movements were slow; her limbs felt heavy and her heart beat dully in her chest. She didn't want to go out there and face him. There was such hope in his eyes, such compassion and care. But she was a horrible person, the lowest form of life. At least her family had thought so.

What family?

Her heart gave a small twinge, reminding her of everything that had happened. She'd eventually pushed it all aside. She'd added her relationship with Sherlock to the list of things she'd lost during that month. And then she'd got on with it. Living. Working. Studying. It was easier to keep going and not think or feel.

But now everything she'd pushed away appeared to be pushing back. It crowded her mind, tightened her chest and threatened to suffocate her. Rose's breath fell short and she stooped, holding onto the bed for support.

_Your mother… you killed your own mother…_

Her face paled and Rose sank, not onto the bed, but the floor beside it.

 _She died of broken heart_ , came her mother's cousin's voice.

Her father's voice, so small in his grief, resonated the loudest.

_You're no longer our daughter._

He couldn't even look at her in the hospital as he repeated those words—her mother's last words to her, spoken only days before she'd sufferd a stroke. It was up to Uncle Denis to remove Rose from her deceased mother's hospital room. She was about to protest very loudly.

Rose was hugging her knees, her head bowed, as she sobbed into her lap. An ache radiated from her heart, making every joint in her body throb. She didn't know how long she had stayed this way, nor did she notice Sherlock entering the room. But he had sat down next to her and held her in his arms.

If he had said anything initially, she didn't remember. But, eventually, something did get through.

"It's going to be all right."

* * *

"I can't do this anymore," Rose eventually hiccupped. Sherlock held her tightly as they sat on the floor of the bedroom.

Can't do what exactly? He wasn't sure. Studying? Juggling multiple jobs? Life? Being with him?

Sherlock thought he was making the right noises, offering the most appropriate soothing words. But during his ordeal—for he found the act of offering vague comfort a bit of an ordeal—he longed to get moving, to solve this thing. Surely, someone of his intellect and pure genius could fix anything.

But Rose wasn't a puzzle to be solved. He was supposed to do just this: offer love and support. It was ill-defined; no logical progression of steps appeared to exist. But still, he held her. His gut twisted at the thought that she was in so much emotional turmoil she couldn't function properly. This had happened once before, and at the time, Sherlock hadn't possessed the emotional intelligence to deal with it adequately.

But when Rose began to uncurl and she leant into him a little, he knew it was only a matter of time before she would be okay, or at least, be able to speak coherently.

Sherlock kissed the top of her head and gently rubbed her back. Rose's sobs eventually became intermittent and she lifted her head briefly to plant a kiss on Sherlock's cheek. His heart swelled.

"Thank you," she whispered a little shakily, before locking her head underneath his chin once more.

"Do you want to talk about it?" he asked, thinking that was the right thing to say.

"Not yet," she replied, sniffing once more.

A few more minutes passed. Sherlock was aware of the passage of time as if he had an actual hourglass in his head. As the sand trickled slowly through to the bottom glass bulb, he could feel every grain. Surely she was wasting precious study time!

"I'm sorry," she whispered.

"For what?"

"For… _everything_."

Sherlock thought in silence for a moment. _Everything_ was far too broad. How could he solve _everything_?

"You did the best you could under the circumstances," he said, hoping his platitude was vague and general enough, having heard the useless sentiment somewhere before.

Rose lifted her head and straightened up.

"I pushed you away and made you feel unwanted and not needed. I'm sorry."

"I know you didn't mean it," Sherlock swiftly replied. He was lying, but Rose didn't need to know about the insecurities he'd harboured after she'd sent him away. He didn't want her to feel any worse than she already did. "Come on," he said encouragingly. "I'll make you a fresh cup of tea and we can talk out there."

Sherlock didn't really want to talk. He just wanted Rose to be herself again and for the rest of their lives together to commence.

Rose wiped her eyes. The situation seemed hopeful, so Sherlock added, "And then I'll fetch you whatever you need so you can continue studying."

"Don't bother," Rose replied resignedly. "I'm not going to… I can't…"

"Of course you can. First things first."

Sherlock rose from the carpeted floor and held out a hand to Rose. Thankfully, she grasped it and allowed Sherlock to help her to her feet.

"I won't continue my course," she said. "I can't now."

Sherlock hated that Rose sounded so defeated. He turned and reached for her.

"Of course you can," he said gently. "It's what you do best. All that mumbo-jumbo psycho-babble—you make it sound interesting."

To Sherlock's relief, Rose's face brightened and a tiny laugh escaped her.

"Do I really?"

Sherlock shrugged lightly. "A bit interesting. _You_ sound interested, anyway."

Rose laughed again, a tiny glimmer of hope in her eyes that warmed Sherlock's heart. She brought her arms up and encircled Sherlock's neck. Her expression grew serious again.

"You're a wonderful man."

"I know."

"But I need to change some things. And studying takes up too much of my time." Her arms slipped down to his chest and she dropped her gaze. "I need to work full-time."

"No," Sherlock said. "Your plans were to study. You're going to do this, and I'm going to help you with the rest." When Rose's eyes met his again, Sherlock added, "Don't you worry about a thing."

"Sherlock—"

"No, Rose. Just let me help. You said you can't do this on your own, and you shouldn't have to anyway. That's why I'm here. Come on."

Sherlock ushered Rose out of the room and was relieved she complied. He seated her at the small breakfast table across from the kitchen and said, waving his hand at the bag she'd deposited on it earlier, "Your books. Arrange them around you on the table so you look busy and important."

Rose's face had softened, and Sherlock was glad his faux-flippant attitude was making her relax. He told her he'd make her coffee instead of Earl Grey since she needed more caffeine to stay awake. After he remarked that he'd be in the living room watching telly should she needed anything, Rose's expression grew concerned.

"I'll… join you," she said. "I'll use the table in there."

The formal dining table sat to one side of the living room, but Sherlock had thought Rose would enjoy the peace and solitude the kitchen provided. Perhaps she needed his company instead?

"It'll be like the old days," she said, standing up and stacking her books together.

Sherlock felt warmed at the thought of the 'old days.' Rose would quietly study at her dining table in Leinster Gardens, while Sherlock tutted loudly at the telly, hoping he'd interrupt Rose enough times for her to join him for snuggling on the sofa. Should he hold out hope that their first evening back together would reach the same happy ending?

Probably not, he thought, as he helped carry the rest of Rose's books through the adjoining door to the living room. He wasn't going to disturb Rose with impatient scoffs at whatever programme was on the telly. Finishing her tutorial presentation was more important than snuggling.

Sherlock prepared Rose's coffee and his tea, then settled onto the sofa for a night's viewing with the sound turned down low. He wasn't really watching anyway; he favoured straining to hear the sound of Rose's brain ticking over, then he'd know she was going to be okay.

After a couple of hours of not really watching any programme, Sherlock yawned widely.

"You should go to bed," Rose said from across the room.

"No, I'm fine," Sherlock replied, stifling another yawn.

"There's no point in both of us being over-tired tomorrow. You have to look after yourself as well."

Sherlock rose from the sofa and made his way over to her.

"Go on," Rose said with an encouraging smile. "I'm nearly finished anyway. There's no need for you to stay up."

"Well, if you think so," Sherlock replied noncommittally.

He glanced at his watch. It was well after midnight. It had been a long day for him, commencing with rising early to visit Craig and asking him to hack into every system possible for data on Rose and her family. Then there was the journey north, via Newcastle, and finally purchasing a new car and booking into the apartment. He could close his eyes just for a minute, then come back out to make Rose another cuppa if she needed it.

"I'll be in the other bedroom just along the corridor, if you need me," Sherlock added. The pang in his heart told him that was not where he wanted to sleep. Curled around Rose's warm body in the main bedroom was his preference, but he didn't want to make any assumptions regarding Rose and their relationship status.

When Rose said, "Okay, thanks, goodnight," and bent her head over her notebook once more, Sherlock's stomach flipped. He drifted away through the door on the other side of the sofa that led to the corridor and the bedrooms beyond. Rose wasn't ready to resume their relationship, he concluded. Or perhaps, worse: she didn't love him anymore. Obviously, she was relieved and grateful for his offer of help, but…

She didn't say, "I love you," in return when Sherlock had said it to her earlier.

Closing the door to the bedroom, he sighed. He had already purchased for himself some necessary items upon arriving in Edinburgh, which he had placed in the bedroom earlier that evening. With a heavy heart, Sherlock slipped into new pyjamas and turned down the covers of the bed.

Perhaps he'd go back out and see if Rose wanted a top up now?

But the lead weight that lined his stomach forced him to abandon that idea. He may just have to accept that their relationship as he once knew it was no more. He would still help and support her. Of that there was no question. She was carrying his baby, after all. And he still loved her and always would.

His heart wrenched from his chest at the thought of his unrequited love. Is this what it felt like?

With these thoughts flitting through Sherlock's mind, he was sure he'd never get to sleep, but his limbs felt heavy and he could feel himself sinking into the mattress.

He wasn't aware he'd fallen asleep and had been that way for quite some time, when the opening of his bedroom door roused him his slumber. Rose's silhouette filled the doorway.

"What?" he croaked, propping himself up on his elbows. "Everything all right?"

"I'm sorry. I didn't want to wake you," came Rose's hesitant voice.

Sherlock reached over and flipped on the bedside light.

"I wasn't asleep," he lied.

Rose looked like she had also been sleeping, or at least tossing and turning. How long had he been out for? Was it morning already?

"I couldn't sleep," Rose said, slowly approaching the bed.

"Oh," Sherlock said, immediately pulling himself upright. "Do you want another cup of tea?" His mind was hazy and not yet fully started. A need for tea was the only thing his brain was capable of retrieving.

He swivelled and drop his feet to the floor.

"No… thank you," Rose said. She forced a tiny smile to her face. "I was wondering… if I could lie next to you… just for a bit."

Sherlock froze, his body poised to leave the bed. Turning to climb back in felt unnatural, but he tried to manage it as casually as possible.

"Yeah, okay."

He shuffled over, leaving his side of the bed vacant for Rose. His heart thumped awkwardly. He wasn't sure of her intentions, nor confident in his ability to keep his distance… if that was what she wanted.

Rose slipped in beside him and switched off the bedside lamp. Her quiet 'thank you' floated through the darkness. Sherlock lay flat on his back with his fingers laced together on top of the covers. He became aware of his own breathing. He didn't know if it was too fast or too slow. But now he had to monitor it, because he couldn't make his conscious mind relinquish control.

"Sherlock?" Rose whispered.

"Mm?"

Sherlock heard the sound of Rose shuffling closer and then her warm body brushed against his.

"Could you hold me for a bit?"

Nothing felt more natural in the world than slipping his arms around Rose and having her rest her head on his chest. But he felt like an insensitive prick for not thinking to hold her himself. Her body moulded perfectly to his. Rose shuddered, and then a quiet sob escaped her.

"It's okay," he said softly.

Sherlock felt her trembling in his arms—silently crying, he surmised—so he held her tightly, intermittently rubbing her arm and murmuring that everything would be okay. She was giving herself over to him. It must've been hard when she had thought she had to cope on her own. Guilt riddled Sherlock's body. He should've returned to Edinburgh sooner!

Eventually, he felt her grow still and heavy on his chest. He kept his arms around her, and found himself drifting off. This was almost the perfect way to end the day, with the exception of Rose's past trauma manifesting itself as a total emotional breakdown.

When the room grew slightly lighter, Sherlock felt Rose leave his side. Because she padded silently out of the bedroom, he concluded she didn't want to talk to him just yet. He lay in bed for a little while, contemplating their immediate future. There were too many unknowns. He didn't know how much of his help Rose would accept.

He left the bedroom for the kitchen, noting along the way that Rose was taking a shower. He filled the kettle and switched it on, then placed the tea cups on the counter and had bread ready to go in the toaster for Rose's breakfast.

Sherlock leant heavily against the kitchen counter, his head bowed. He drew in a calming breath. His heart rate was slightly elevated. He hated this… this uncertainty.

 _Enjoy not getting involved_ , came his brother's smarmy voice. Mycroft had recited variants of the same sentiment to Sherlock all his life. Was this why? Because it hurt? There was an actual physiological pain in his heart due to his feelings for Rose and whether or not they were reciprocated.

"You know you actually have to press down the lever," came Rose's voice from behind him.

Sherlock was jolted out of his reverie.

"What?"

He turned to her, thinking there was something he'd omitted to do to kickstart their relationship, before he followed Rose's gaze to the toaster.

"Oh. I was waiting for you to appear." He depressed the lever, locking it in place, and added, "It's not for me. Would you like some toast?"

Rose replied that she did, and thanked him before she opened the door adjoining the living area. She continued talking to Sherlock through the open doorway, telling him she'd finished preparing her presentation last night, and she felt quite confident about it. She stacked up her papers and books and chatted comfortably _at him_ as if the previous night's issues, and the early hours of this morning, hadn't occurred.

Sherlock drifted toward the doorway and casually leant against it as Rose told him about the over-representation of foreign incarceration in the UK.

His heart began to lift again. Rose was in much better spirits this morning, almost like her old self. He congratulated himself for convincing her to continue her studies. He knew she enjoyed it and she was good at it—much like he was when it came to his own work. Take that away, and he'd only live a half-existence.

Sherlock realised he had tuned out. It didn't matter, really. He just enjoyed seeing her enthusiastic about something again.

"…lift to uni?"

Rose was looking at him expectantly.

"Sorry, what?" he asked, rejoining the here and now.

"Could you give me a lift to uni?"

"Yes," he said, straightening up. "Of course. That's why I'm here. At your service." He smiled broadly and was rewarded with a smile in return.

"And then I've got an Ethics lecture. And after that, a couple of tutoring sessions with—"

"I thought your tutoring session was this morning?"

"No," Rose said, smiling amiably as she zipped up her backpack now laden with books. "This morning is my assessment task. I have to deliver a presentation to my seminar group. It's called a tutorial, confusingly. This afternoon, I actually tutor a couple of undergrads in Psychology at twenty-five pounds an hour. I enjoy it, actually."

Sherlock frowned. He had thought there would be no further need for Rose to be running about the city working herself into the ground at cafes and pubs and volunteering at the community centre in between studying. Would she be willing to give up her tutoring sessions as well if he offered to support her financially?

But all he said in reply was, "Oh. Okay."

Leaving Rose and her toast laden with black cherry jam, Sherlock excused himself to have a shower and get dressed for the day. He missed his designer suits and slim-fitting shirts. Jeans and shirts off the rack were the staples for Scott Williams.

As they were leaving, Rose pointed out the area where she had shopped with her cousin or somebody of no real significance to Sherlock. He concluded she was doing that nervous chattering again. Many topics of conversation were covered during their drive to Rose's university campus—the perils of driving through peak hour traffic; the dull lives of the two women Rose offered tutoring services to; the type of people she saw during the counselling sessions; and, finally, the unpredictable Edinburgh weather.

Sherlock's contribution to the conversation consisted of phrases like, "Is it?" or "Do they?" interspersed with confirmation nods or an "Mm" or two. But all the while, playing in the background of his mind, was the recording on an endless loop of "Does she love me, or doesn't she?" He couldn't read the answer in the words she spoke, nor the way she spoke them.

Finally, after they pulled into the university carpark, and Sherlock stopped the car at the kerb, he sighed and said, "So… five-thirty, was it?"

Rose gave him an odd look—one of curious incredulity.

"What?" he asked.

"You," Rose replied, a faint look of amusement on her face.

"What about me?"

Rose seemed to scan him from head to toe, which Sherlock found slightly disconcerting.

"You're driving your girlfriend to and from uni," she said, causing Sherlock's heart to twinge at her use of the word 'girlfriend.' "And you're dressed as Mr Average Joe… or William… Scott or whoever."

"Scott Williams."

"Yes, well…" She paused, as if to gather her thoughts. "This isn't you, is it? This isn't Sherlock Holmes."

"I'm not supposed to be. I'm—"

"How long can you keep this up for?"

Her question threw him. How long—? Was this some kind of test? His chest expanded at the thought of a challenge in which he could excel. Sherlock had once lived an undercover life for three whole months on the streets of London, right under the nose of his sticky-beak brother, and of course, there was two whole years not being Sherlock Holmes on continental Europe, breaking up Moriarty's network. How long?

"As long as necessary."

Rose gave Sherlock a grim smile, one that he cared little for.

"Well, we'll have to talk about logistics and things. I kind of like Sherlock Holmes."

Rose grabbed her bag from the floor beside her, while Sherlock's stomach flipped. He had that feeling of being inadequate again.

"'Bye, Sherlock," Rose said, looking up at him, with hope in her eyes.

Sherlock furrowed his brow.

"What?"

"Goodbye."

Panic seized Sherlock's heart. She was doing this again—pushing him away. His throat began to constrict.

"Why?" he croaked.

"Because," she said, her smile growing on her face, "I have my presentation to deliver… remember?"

Sherlock blinked a couple of times to reset. For Christ's sake! What was wrong with him.

"Oh. You're saying goodbye for the day." What an moron, he was! Sherlock released the shaky breath he'd been holding.

But he didn't understand the way Rose was looking at him right now. What did she expect of him?

"How about a goodbye kiss?" she asked.

Was she… was she attempting to stifle a laugh?

"So, we're doing that again are we?" Sherlock asked, unamused. Rose's emotions had been all over the shop during the last half day in his company. How was he supposed to know that kissing was now acceptable again?

"Well, I would hope so."

Rose leant forward expectantly. Sherlock stayed where he was. He threw a glance toward the windscreen, then past Rose and out the passenger side window lest they were being watched. Other students were striding toward the buildings, or standing in untidy clumps and talking about dull academics probably. Rose's light chuckle drew his gaze back to her.

She lifted her hand to caress Sherlock's face.

"I love you," she said softly, her eyes beginning to glisten.

This time his heart actually somersaulted and he felt his cheeks redden.

"Oh."

It was a realisation and not a negative response. Sherlock hadn't been prepared for her utterance, that's all.

"Did you think I didn't?"

"Well… you spent last night an incoherent mess, when you weren't studying, that is. I had no idea, Rose. I can't read you any more."

Her smile faltered a little. "I'm sorry you didn't know that." As her eyes moistened, Sherlock realised he didn't want her to get upset again and he struggled in vein to think of something cheery to say. But Rose added, maintaining a steady voice, "I never stopped loving you, in spite of what I said before." Sherlock could feel the tension leaving his body. He forced a reassuring smile to his face.

Rose appeared to recompose herself, her face brightening again. "Just kiss me, Sherlock. I have to go."

This, he could do.

Sherlock narrowed the gap between them and experimentally brushed his lips against Rose's. New rules were being written every second, and Sherlock was the last one to learn of them, apparently. When Rose's lips parted, he at least knew what that meant. But he was wary of the arousal the taste and feel of her would provoke in him. In the car. At this hour. And then he would have her absence for the entire day to deal with.

Sherlock drew back, breaking their kiss, and murmured, "I love you, too."

Rose emitted a tiny sigh as she, too, straightened up.

"Bye, Rose."

"Five-thirty, then," she said, grasping the door handle and giving him one last smile.

Sherlock fixed her with a broad grin and said, "I'll grab something for dinner." When Rose quirked an eyebrow, he added, "Or Scott will. I have no idea. Probably chips or something. Is there a chip shop nearby?"

"I think so," Rose said, with a tiny laugh. "Goodbye, Sherlock."

_._


	79. The Beginning of a New Chapter

Rose spied Sherlock's car in the location he had texted her only moments ago. With every step, her heart-rate quickened. Clearly her outlook on life had changed for the better. Her morning routine used to consist of mentally running through the day's obligations and logistics—where she had to be at any given moment, what type of energy she needed to expend; was it a physical or an emotional investment? And what personal sacrifices would she have to make in order to accomplish everything?

Her load had been lightened thanks to Sherlock's return and her own change of heart. Her reaction to the dramatic changes in her life was long overdue. She should've dealt with her emotions at the time, but she kept thinking each moment was not convenient. She was far from fine, but the process of healing had begun. Rose knew this process would be greatly enhanced by sharing her experiences. She had baulked at the idea of a group counselling session, but she now had someone in whom she could confide and trust with her story.

But for the moment, she had a whole range of things to organise for this evening, and she required Sherlock's input for that as well.

"Hello," she said, puffing lightly as she sank into the passenger seat. "Now, about tonight, I hope you don't mind, but I need to go back to the house in Niddrie and get another change of clothes. I want to reassure Olivia that I'll be back tomorrow morning to clean. I've got Friday mornings off, so it's my cleaning day." She flashed Sherlock a brief smile before pulling on her seat belt. "I clean the house once a week in exchange for low rent. Now, I know what—"

"Rose."

"—you're going to say, but I'm committed to the rest of the month. Even if I—"

"Rose."

"—live…  _stay_ … with you for a bit, I—"

"Rose. Wait."

Rose paused and looked properly at Sherlock for the first time since she'd entered the car.

"What?"

One corner of Sherlock's mouth was curved upwards, and Rose was warmed to see his eyes glistening.

"How about a proper hello?" he asked.

Rose's heart stuttered and her mind ceased the endless racing it had been doing all afternoon. Too much caffeine, she had decided. She'd hardly slept at all last night, and the crying had taken it out of her. When her energy levels had begun to flag dramatically by lunch time, she'd over-caffeinated to compensate.

"Sorry," she said, smiling sheepishly.

Rose leant toward Sherlock. Tiny butterflies flitted through her stomach as he brought a gentle hand to the nape of her neck and softly kissed her with skillful precision. Rose felt desire drizzle through her. She returned his kiss in equal measure, languishing in the taste of him, but not daring to demand more.

When he drew back, his eyes were glistening.

"Hello, Rose," he said, his voice hovering a mere semitone above sultry bedroom level.

Rose felt herself flush. How ridiculous!

"Sherlock," she managed to say, maintaining a steady voice.

Sherlock put the car in reverse, and casually glanced through the rearview mirror.

"You were saying something?" he asked, turning to look over his shoulder to check for oncoming traffic.

Rose repeated everything she had told him only moments ago, in a less frantic pace than before. She added that she would normally work a shift at the Craigmillar Pub tonight, but she had called in sick.

"I'll have to give them notice," she said. "And the café as well. That's if…"

She glanced at Sherlock. He was concentrating on navigating the car through the semi-congested car park.

"Well..." she continued. "We do need to talk about this, don't we?"

"I thought that's what we were doing," Sherlock replied congenially, his gaze fixed firmly on the road ahead.

Rose could feel an enormous pressure building up inside her. She assumed she could give up her late night jobs. But what if Sherlock became totally unreasonable? What if his help and support came with caveats? He always had such grand ideas.

"I know what you're thinking," Sherlock said, breaking into her thoughts.

"I thought you couldn't read me."

"That was before, when you were deliberately keeping things from me. Your body language was at odds with the words you spoke. The whole package," he added, idly waving a hand in her direction, "was a mass of contradictions."

"Okay, then," she said, sighing.

"We're in this together." Sherlock reached for Rose's hand and gave it a little squeeze. "There's no you or me, there's only us."

When Rose's brow lifted, Sherlock gave her a lopsided smile.

"Yes, okay. I read that somewhere," he said. "But the sentiment still stands. What's mine is yours. It's not a question of me paying for sexual favours anymore."

"I know. We're beyond that."

Sherlock brought the back of Rose's hand to his lips and kissed it.

"It's a partnership," he said, smiling broadly.

Sherlock let go of Rose's hand as they meandered their way out of Sighthill and merged onto the Edinburgh City Bypass. Tension had left her body in waves, but there was still the question of where they were going to live, for she would never return to London, and she couldn't see Sherlock Holmes relocating to Edinburgh.

"Let me tell you about my plans for studying," she said, thinking she may as well lay all her cards on the table. "My course is delivered over three trimesters—it's only a one year course, full-time…"

"I know."

"So, I was only going to finish this first trimester, then defer while I found a full-time job. I intended working up until my due date, but then…" Rose paused, her thoughts daring to go where they would normally hover.  _I'll have a baby_ , she finished, reluctant to say the words out loud. She realised there would come a time when she would cease being  _pregnant_ —that temporary state that seemed to exist on another plane of reality—and start having an  _actual baby_  to look after. She'd be a  _mother_.

"Um…" she said, losing track of her thoughts momentarily. "And then I'll—"

"It's all academic now," Sherlock said with a conspiratorial smile. "Knowing the precise date of conception, I've calculated your due date as the sixteenth of September. The second trimester of your course ends in August. All going well, you could possibly continue studying up until your due date. It's not imperative you find work leading up to the baby's birth. And you'll have two trimesters of your course completed, leaving the third to be deferred until such time as you feel ready for it." He finished by taking his eyes from the road momentarily and gifting Rose with a triumphant smile, the corners of his mouth stretched wide.

He seemed quite content with a plan that solved the many issues that had kept her awake on endless nights. This warmed Rose considerably.

"That would be amazing," she said, more to herself than to Sherlock, as she scanned the view outside her window.  _To have two thirds of my course completed!_

"Yes, I know. I even amaze myself sometimes."

A spontaneous laugh bubbled up inside and escaped Rose. Sherlock cast her a sideways glance, a mixture of amusement and pride on his face. They drove in silence for a little while, with Rose contemplating how everything was actually going to work.

Sherlock had leant one elbow up on his door as he drove, his temple resting against his knuckles. Now and again he'd rub his fingers along his brow.

Finally, he dropped his arm and said, "Why get clothes for tonight only? We should pack up all your belongings." Sherlock's brow was furrowed as if this matter really concerned him. Did he think she wouldn't want to stay with him? If he was confused, it was her own fault really.

"Well, I…" She didn't have any reason not to—not really. "I don't know. I suppose we could."

She'd have to let Olivia know, obviously. The ex-social worker was quite militant about keeping abusive ex-partners away from the women she sheltered. Not that Rose ever implied that was the cause of her need for cheap rent.

"What are you worried about?" Sherlock asked. "I know the apartment's not the most secure building, but it's the best I could find at short notice. Obviously, if I purchase it outright, I'll get security locks in—"

"Purchase? Sherlock, I think I'd much rather rent somewhere close to uni."

"Nonsense. And live in an area surrounded by riff-raff?"

"Yes."

Sherlock scoffed, causing Rose's insides to churn. She felt his gaze upon her as she stared darkly out of the window, wondering what rights she had if he was going to pay for everything. When his hand stole hers she turned to him.

"Wherever you want to live is fine by me," he said, glancing her way, before concentrating on the road once more. "Rose." He paused, as if to gather his thoughts. "You know I'll be commuting from London…"

"I know, Sherlock."

"As often as I can."

"I know."

"Where you live… and where I  _stay_ … It has to be secure."

She was about to query how often Sherlock would visit, when he asked, "I assume you saw the Moriarty broadcast on New Year's Day?"

"What? Oh… yes. I heard about it, but I thought it was a hoax… wasn't it?"

"Not a hoax, no," Sherlock said carefully. "But not a live broadcast. He's dead. There's no doubt about that."

"Then what was the point of it?"

Sherlock's hands clenched around the steering wheel.

"He's planned something," he said in a low voice. "A posthumous game. I'll know what it is when I see it."

"Something for you?"

Sherlock's gaze appeared to sharpen as they accelerated along the highway.

"There would be no point to his game if it wasn't intended for me. He recorded that message before he died to be played at some point in the future should he not make it off that roof."

Rose didn't like where this conversation was headed. She was reminded of the end result of James Moriarty's game-playing with Sherlock three years ago. A game that resulted in Sherlock's fake suicide and two year absence. Her heart filled with dread.

"Sherlock…"

Sherlock inhaled deeply and gave Rose a grim smile.

"I will keep you safe." These weren't words that filled Rose with any sense of security. "Not that Moriarty would know anything about you," Sherlock continued. "He made these plans before his death, and at that time you were no more significant to me than my dry-cleaner."

"Thanks," Rose said with false bravado. "I had no idea you were having sex with your dry-cleaner."

"You know what I mean."

Rose could feel her chest tighten. This wasn't how she thought their reconciliation would go. Was Sherlock going to disappear abroad again, in pursuit of James Moriarty's rabbit trails? He was going to be a… a father.

"What are you going to do?" she asked reluctantly.

"Nothing at all."

When Rose furrowed her brow, Sherlock added, "Don't worry. I'm not going leave England again." A sheepish smile crossed his face. "Well, except for frequent visits to Scotland."

Sherlock told Rose he would prefer it if they bought a flat outright, rather than rent. With renting came the possibility of nosy and intrusive landlords. Rose tended to agree with Sherlock, especially if one of the tenants was going to disappear to London for days (or weeks?) at a time. He reiterated the point that he wanted their residence to be Rose's choice, adding that she should choose from the upper end of the market.

"Or a nice area where families live," she contributed, causing Sherlock to blink rapidly a few times without looking at her. Now what did that mean?

When they pulled up outside the half-way house in Niddrie, Sherlock asked Rose if she wanted him to accompany her inside.

"Um… just give me a few minutes?"

She didn't want to turn up at the doorstep with a person of the male persuasion, and then inform Olivia that she was moving out with him. Her landlady and sometime support would jump to the wrong conclusion.

Rose had decided to ease Olivia into the idea of Sherlock's existence, or rather, Scott William's existence. She grabbed another change of clothes for tomorrow and told Olivia she'd collect the rest of her things after she finished cleaning the house tomorrow morning. And she told Olivia that the father of her baby was back in her life, taking care to mention that he didn't know she was expecting in the first place, hence his initial absence.

Sherlock didn't seem at all concerned with the slight change in plans. Rose told Sherlock all about Olivia and the work she did at a women's refuge, as well as the transient occupants of her house, which included Annabelle, the prostitute Sherlock had seen last night.

They stopped at a supermarket on the way back through the city. Rose wanted to purchase a couple of special things to surprise Sherlock with, plus pick up ingredients for dinner when it became clear he had completely forgotten about his offer that morning to grab something. He still insisted on chips, but then contradicted himself when he informed Rose she was neglecting her diet.

Rose was partly relieved Sherlock hadn't gone grocery shopping for ingredients to fix their evening meal. It wouldn't be characteristic of him if he did. He insisted on accompanying her into the shop, but when he stood in the entrance, blinking up at the lights and slowly scanning the store in every direction, Rose asked if he was all right.

"I'm fine. You go and do your…  _shopping thing_. I'm going to investigate."

"Investigate what?"

"Everything," he said distractedly, seemingly mesmerised by something in the distance.

He drifted off, leaving Rose to wonder if Sherlock Holmes had ever set foot inside a supermarket before.

* * *

Sherlock furrowed his brow at the enormous salad Rose had asked him to prepare. It sat in its multi-coloured, multi-textured layers in the electric frying pan—the only vessel in the entire holiday apartment that could hold it.

 _There's still an over-abundance of lettuce_ , Sherlock thought, internally tutting. Surely Rose  _hadn't_ meant for him to use  _all_ of the vegetables. What had she been thinking? He had to use the whole bag of carrots and tomatoes just so the lettuce wasn't as dominant.

After rearranging the shelving in the narrow fridge, he stowed the entire appliance inside it. He wondered how Rose was faring, so he left the kitchen to find out.

The door to the main bathroom was open, which was always a welcome sign. In the tub Rose was lying almost fully submerged beneath the bubbles. Only her facial features were visible. Sherlock leant against the doorframe, a smile playing on his lips.

"That salad should last you an entire week, or more," he said.

Rose pulled herself out of the water a little.

"Why's that?"

"You wanted me to use all of the vegetables," he replied, shrugging lightly.

Naturally Rose began to laugh. Sherlock had been half-expecting that reaction.

"Not all," she said eventually. "I just wanted you to make a salad for two—for both of us—using bits of all of… Oh, Sherlock. Did you use an entire head of lettuce?"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at Rose. If that was something he shouldn't have done, she should've made her request a little clearer.

"Well," he said, huffing a sigh, "you should be eating healthily anyway. Just so you know, I've downloaded an eating plan I found on a pregnancy website. You've already missed weeks one through fourteen. Don't feel as if you need to catch up. But it's going to need another trip to the supermarket."

Sherlock made to leave the bathroom when Rose called him back.

"I'm all done here," she said, waving the bar of newly purchased coconut-scented soap in the air before placing it in the soap dish. "Why don't you join me?"

"You know how I feel about sex in the bath, Rose."

"Yes," she replied, laughing lightly. "And that's why we only have foreplay in here."

Sherlock didn't immediately respond. He was outlining a future scenario in his mind.

"No," he said in conclusion. "The hallway is carpeted. We'll drip water all over it trying to make it to the bedroom. That's irresponsible."

"Says the man who loves Cluedo."

"Where do you want your salad?" Sherlock asked, endeavouring to change the subject from the ridiculous to the mundane. "The kitchen table or the living room table?"

With a tiny sigh, Rose tilted her head and leant it back on the edge of bathtub.

"You choose."

Sherlock stifled an eye-roll and made his way back to the kitchen. Domestic duties had begun to pall after spending almost three quarters of an hour making a salad fit for about thirty people. He didn't know how much longer Rose was going to be, so he pulled out a dining chair and sank down onto it. Sherlock was aware his phone had beeped several times over the course of the evening, so he set about trawling through his inbox for interesting cases.

Several minutes later, as he was rapidly typing a reply to D.I. Hopkins, he felt Rose's hand on his shoulder just before the all-too-familiar scent of coconut caressed his olfactory system.

"Would you like me to serve up the salad now?" Rose asked. "I can steam some chicken, too, if you like."

Sherlock felt a welcome stirring as he looked up at Rose. She was wrapped in a bathrobe, and her damp hair was twisted over one shoulder. There was a faint smile on her lips, one that belied her intention to simply supply him with dinner.

"Only if serving up a salad is a euphemism for something else," he declared, venturing to voice his own desires.

Rose bent a little until her lips were hovering over his. She whispered, "I've decided I want it on the living room table."

Sherlock's heart began to race as Rose drifted into the next room. Standing up and adjusting his jeans, he wondered what the hell  _steaming some chicken_  was a euphemism for. He guessed he was about to find out.

* * *

"Just as I thought," Rose said, as she lay in Sherlock's arms and showed him his phone's screen. "It's from Ikea."

Sherlock glanced at the screen. He had told her the lamp that had fallen victim to their living room antics wasn't a priceless antique, so Rose assumed it came from Ikea, since she had recognised other items in the flat as originating from the Swedish superstore.

"I'll pick one up tomorrow while you're at uni," Sherlock said.

Rose chuckled at the idea of Sherlock attempting to navigate the maze of showrooms for just one item.

"No, we'll go out there together on the weekend. I'm not letting you wander unescorted around Ikea. I'll never find you again. Now, come on." She stood up and crossed the living room to retrieve her dressing gown. Pulling it around her, she said, "You were going to make me a cup of tea while I look for that house in the suburbs I was talking about."

Sherlock silently acquiesced. He grabbed his clothes from the floor and left the living area, stark naked—a view that didn't go unappreciated by Rose.

She sank back down onto the sofa, grabbing Sherlock's phone from the coffee table to use instead of her own, which was probably in her bag on the other side of the room. Part-way through her Ethics lecture that afternoon, she had started searching student accommodation websites, before realising she was no longer limited by a meagre budget. The notion filled her with a mild panic, before she calmed down and once more told herself she had to learn to accept help from Sherlock. Like he said: they were in this together.

She had found a lovely Victorian detached house in Morningside, with its own garden, near schools and shops and less than five minutes from the Royal Edinburgh Hospital. That was convenient. During the lecture, she began day-dreaming about having her own tiny garden and teaching  _their baby_ to toddle about in red wellies on uneven ground. And then her sensible side kicked in, and she began browsing small flats instead.

But she had mentioned the house to Sherlock, and he was adamant they go with her first choice.

"Money is no object, Rose," he had said. "I know that's your first concern, but it needn't be."

As they lay entangled on the sofa, post-coitus, with Sherlock gently stroking her arm—rewiring his entorhinal cortex with her new-old scent, he had informed her—Rose had sensibly moved on to finding a replacement lamp.

But now as she navigated Sherlock's phone to the properties for sale website, she was filled with tiny jitters of excitement. This was on top of the overall tingle she still experienced from their love-making earlier. Sherlock still surprised her with his enthusiasm and dexterity. He wasn't drunk or high this time. Perhaps it was because he hadn't had sex in nearly two months. Well, neither had she, come to think of it.

From the kitchen, she heard Sherlock click on the kettle.

"Do you want normal tea," he called through the open doorway, "or that fancy flower thingy?"

"The fancy flower thingy," she replied.  _Also known as chamomile_ , she thought, smiling to herself. "I'll text you the address," she added.

"Just tell me," Sherlock said, appearing in the doorway holding two empty tea mugs. He was now dressed in his pyjamas and a dressing gown. "I'll remember."

When he disappeared again, Rose said, "No, I'll text it. I don't want you buying the wrong house because you misheard one digit."

Sherlock appeared in the doorway once more as Rose left the sofa for her bag, which was lying on the floor near the dining table.

"Just don't begin your text with 'Hi,'" he said, turning away again. "I don't read social chit-chat messages. In fact, I delete them."

Rose chuckled to herself as she drew out her phone. Why would he delete messages from her?

Returning to the sofa, Rose navigated through Sherlock's contacts on his phone, looking for her own listing. When she couldn't immediately find it under either her first name or surname, she typed in her number until it came up with a match in his contacts:

_Edinburgh_

_Nice one, Sherlock,_ she thought. Then, feeling frivolous, she downloaded an image of the blue and red stripes of the  _Edinburgh Rose_  amateur football club. She'd heard her second cousin Malcolm and his best mate Adrian talking about it. They'd caught her attention when they'd mentioned 'Rose' until she realised they were talking about football. Besides, nobody in Scotland called her  _Rose_  anyway. Both of them played for the Inter Edinburgh Football Club and they were analysing play by play how they had lost to 'Rose' on the weekend.

Rose decided to change the text alert noise for  _Edinburgh Rose_  as well, so Sherlock would know it was her and wouldn't delete or ignore her messages. Scrolling through the list of ringtones, she noticed one called 'Ah.' She selected it and was surprised to hear a female sigh of satisfaction. Rose began giggling. She'd not heard that one before.

"Did you say something?" Sherlock called out.

"No," Rose replied, attempting to stifle her laughter.

"Are you supposed to have milk and sugar with this… this flower thingy?"

"No."

"Bugger."

Sherlock eventually emerged from the kitchen with both cups of tea as Rose was pressing  _Send_  on her text message to him containing the address of the house in Morningside. He froze when his phone lit up and sighed at him from its position on the coffee table. Rose started giggling again. Sherlock's brow furrowed as his gaze drifted from the phone to Rose.

"Was that…?"

"Yes," Rose replied with a tiny laugh.

Sherlock placed the mugs of tea down onto the coffee table before snatching up his phone. He glanced at the message, his expression unreadable, before silently replacing the phone again. Rose made room for him on the sofa, drawing her legs up and plumping out a cushion behind her.

Sherlock nonchalantly reached for his mug of tea and leant back into the sofa, giving Rose room to stretch her legs across his lap.

"So you changed your text alert noise," Sherlock said before taking a sip of tea.

"Yes, I did."

"And that's the tone you like the most, is it?"

"I didn't get very far."

Sherlock quietly sipped his tea once more.

"So… what is that?" Rose asked, not being able to wait a moment longer. "Or should I ask,  _who_  is that? It's not a standard ringtone from Apple."

Sherlock inhaled deeply and sighed before answering.

"A client from years ago. She… she personalised her text alert noise as a bit of a joke."

 _Intriguing_. How did this woman get a hold of Sherlock's phone? And why had she played that particular kind of joke on Sherlock? But Rose knew Sherlock Holmes well enough now to know when he was faking a calm demeanour. She'd seen it last year, when he pretended not to panic during her initial explanation about how to play Cluedo.

"So, if she texts you, you won't know if it's her or me?"

"Oh, I'll know it's you," Sherlock replied. He patted Rose's legs before he leant forward and placed his tea onto the table so he could retrieve his phone again. "I deleted her contact details. There's no one else who has that text alert noise now."

Rose watched Sherlock as he tapped away at his phone.

"Mm, looks nice," he said. Clearly he was now looking at the house, and attempting to change the subject.

"I can change it if it bothers you."

"No, no. You like the garden."

"I'm talking about the text alert noise."

Sherlock momentarily paused in swiping through the photo gallery pictures of the house.

"Did you chose it," he asked, "or did it randomly become attached to your—"

"I chose it."

"Well, then, it's fine."

"I won't text you all the time."

"It's fine, Rose."

"Just in an emergency. You know, like  _I'm having a baby!_  That sort of emergency. I'd rather ring you for a chat if you hate reading chatty text messages."

"Fine. Although, you really should ring me if you go into labour and I'm not here." He paused, a smile spreading across his face. "But I do expect to be here before your due date."

"I could go into labour any time during—"

"I'll be here, Rose."

Rose withdrew her legs from Sherlock's lap and swivelled so she could retrieve her own cuppa. Sherlock began tapping out a message on his phone.

"All done," he said, pressing one final key with a flourish.

"Done what?"

"I've just texted my agent. We're putting in an offer on that house."

Rose's breath caught in her throat. Just like that, they were buying a house.

"You have an agent? But how… how can you afford this," she asked, "when you've had to flatshare in London?"

"That was years ago. The British Government owe me, especially for my efforts around Europe. They think they have to give me huge sums of money on a regular basis to keep my mouth shut about all sorts of things I've uncovered, plus they think I deserve some sort of compensation for ridding the world of James Moriarty and his criminal networks in lieu of a knighthood. I've accumulated a stupid amount of money, Rose, and I've filtered it through various channels so it's now available for Scott Williams to purchase things for his family."

He gifted her with one final smile before rising from the sofa and looking about him. Rose's heart was thumping and her head swam at Sherlock's words,  _His family_.

"Now," he declared, "where's your bag? Didn't you say you had one of those sewing things in there?"

"No. You're not going to, Sherlock."

"Ah."

Sherlock strode purposefully toward Rose's handbag that he'd spied on a dining chair.

"I said 'no,'" Rose protested as Sherlock rifled through her bag. They had discussed this as they lay on the sofa earlier, with Sherlock gently caressing her rounded belly. She thought she'd made her wishes quite clear.

"And I said I need to obtain this information for myself."

Triumphantly, Sherlock pulled out the sewing kit from Rose's bag. Opening the tiny plastic box, he retrieved a measuring tape.

"I get this done at the clinic," Rose said.

"And I need to do my own monitoring and keep my own records."

"So hack into the clinic's computer system like you'd normally do."

Sherlock crossed the living room, unravelling the tape as he approached Rose.

"And where's the fun in that?" he said, smiling. "Come on, Rose." Sherlock slid the tape between his fingers. "Lie down. This won't hurt a bit."

.

 


	80. Families Fall Out

Rose used the back of her gloved hand to wipe the sweat from her forehead. The smell of disinfectant made her head swim, so she swiftly left the bathroom she had just finished cleaning. Downstairs, Olivia was attempting to sooth Annabelle's nine-month-old. The landlady looked up at Rose with a frown of disapproval.

"All done," Rose said. "And I've put a load of Annabelle's clothes in the washing machine. Here…" Rose pulled off her rubber gloves and reached for the infant.

"'e needs feedin'," Olivia said, handing over the baby. "And there's nowt—"

Rose nodded towards the sink where she had dumped the three dirty bottles she'd retrieved from Annabelle's room earlier. Rose had tidied and cleaned around the passed out mother. She wasn't supposed to clean individual bedrooms, but she couldn't stand the thought of baby Jack sleeping and playing in such a dump.

"You shouldnae go in there," Olivia said, turning to the sink.

"Can you shut that thing up," came a voice rough from sleep and heavy smoking the night before.

A dishevelled young woman came shuffling into the kitchen, her thick, overly-hairsprayed tresses untamed, and her eyeliner and mascara smudged around her puffy eyes. Annabelle still wore the same tight lycra dress she had on the night before.

"Who do I have-tae fuck around here tae get meself a cuppa tea?" Annabelle said, sinking down onto a chair and dramatically cradling her head in her hands.

"'e's hungry," Olivia said disapprovingly to Annabelle as Rose hugged the baby close and left the room. She'd leave Olivia to do the chastising. The noise level would only increase if she stayed in the kitchen with a protesting infant.

As the two women began to shout at each other, Rose closed the door leading from the kitchen and crossed the living room to the window. Looking out, she could see Sherlock had already arrived and was sitting in the car parked at the kerb in front of the house tapping away on his phone. Rose gently rubbed Jack's back, bringing his cries into submission.

She left the house with Jack nestled contentedly in the crook of her neck. Kissing the top of his head, she whispered, "I wish I could take you with me."

"And who do we have here?" Sherlock asked as he joined Rose on the pavement.

"This is Jack."

Sherlock stooped a little to examine the baby boy in Rose's embrace.

"Hello, little man," he said gently.

Jack eyed Sherlock curiously for a second, then turned his head away and whimpered.

"He's over-tired and hungry," Rose said, rubbing the infant's back once more.

"So…" Sherlock began hesitantly as he straightened up. "Is… he... all you're bringing home today?"

"I wish," she replied, sighing deeply. "Nope, the baby stays. My things are upstairs. Come in."

Rose led Sherlock inside, where they bypassed the kitchen and made for the stairs.

"I'd introduce you, but…"

Rose let the shouting speak for itself. Sherlock smiled grimly. They ascended the two flights of stairs up to Rose's tiny bedroom. She pointed out the boxes and suitcases she needed taken to the car. Sherlock took the heaviest box first, and Rose trailed behind him. She had to keep moving anyway. Baby Jack would fidget unhappily if she stopped for a second.

With the back of the car loaded up with Rose's things, Sherlock joined her in the living room just as Olivia entered with a bottle of formula.

"Oh, Olivia, this is Scott," Rose said.

Sherlock smiled warmly at Olivia and extended his hand.

"Lovely to meet you at last," he said to Olivia.

Rose stifled a laugh. What the hell was that accent? Was Scott Williams from Northern Ireland now?

But she noted that Olivia greeted Sherlock just as politely. This meant she was highly suspicious of Scott Williams. The ex-social worker once told Rose she would be open and friendly to anyone she met initially, so people would lower their guard and she could get to know the real person behind the mask.

Well, meet Sherlock Holmes, Rose thought. Olivia would never penetrate his façade.

But Olivia had her suspicions about what type of man Scott Williams was. As a result of her line of work, Rose's landlady had a very tainted view of the male species. Rose had shown up this morning looking tired and puffy-eyed, and yes, she had been crying the night before, but her tiredness was due in part to her and Sherlock not being able to keep their hands off each other for very long.

She hadn't wanted to endure another session of crying, but as they had lain contentedly together in the early hours, Sherlock had again asked her what had happened to make her estranged from her family. So she finally told him.

* * *

_**Five weeks ago** _

There were squeals of delight. What had started as Uncle Denis's sixtieth birthday celebrations had ended with his eldest daughter Fleur, who lived in Abu Dhabi, announcing her engagement during a Skype birthday message. It was pre-recorded because of the time difference. It was to be her second marriage, so although everyone gathered around for a champagne toast, tongues still clucked and the gossip-mongers among them still recalled the dramas that had surrounded Fleur's first marriage.

Rose, tired and a bit emotional herself due to not hearing anything from Sherlock for the past week, had safely stayed out of the spotlight. That is, until Malcolm's girlfriend Jessie pointed out that "Rosemarie didnae get a glass of champagne." Rose was trying to discreetly raise her glass of water during the toast to the happy but absent couple.

"Wa's wrong with ye?" asked Mal. "Ye didnae drink anything all night, or come outside with us tae-" Jessie elbowed her boyfriend before he spilled the beans on their regular toking sessions on nights like these—one that Rose neglected to join this time round. "Are ye pregnant or summin'?"

Everything would've be fine had Rose immediately smiled and laughed along with everyone else. But her hesitance spoke volumes. There was a collective gasp from the older set, before Jessie—who was completely _blootert_ —lunged at Rose, offering her drunken congratulations.

"Christ, you're a dark horse!" exclaimed Malcolm.

There were murmurings from the seniors and laughter mostly from the younger set, but through the crowd Rose spied her mother hasten out of the room, followed closely by her father. Rose's cheeks were deeply flushed by now as her cousins and their partners and friends crowded around her.

"Fuck me… ye don't look…"

"How pregnant are ye?"

"So, who's the fa—"

"Shh!"

"Excuse me," Rose said, feeling the walls pressing in on her. It was too much too soon—being confronted with this just a week after she had told Sherlock the news and had pushed him out of her life. And now her parents were upset with her again.

She found her mum and dad in the tiny drawing room of her uncle and aunt's house, just off the entranceway. Her dad was consoling her mother as she sat in a Chintz armchair.

"I'm sorry you found out like this," Rose began. She forced a smile to her face. "I actually wanted to wait until I was twelve weeks, you know, with the first trimester being—"

Mr Sulford straightened up as his wife said, "You have a nerve! Ruining Uncle Denis's sixtieth like this!"

"What? I didn't—"

"Why are you like this? What did we ever do to deserve—"

"Like what?" Rose's chest grew tight. This wasn't a new argument. Every time something happened in her life and she had sought support from her parents, they were often perplexed as to how she had "turned out this way."

"I'm nine weeks pregnant," Rose continued. "I haven't joined a cult or a terrorist organisation. Why are you so upset? It's not as if I'm fifteen years old. I'm an adult."

"It's not enough you're ruining your own life," her mother spluttered. "You had to ruin _his_ as well."

"Who? Uncle Denis?"

"Adrian!"

"A—?"

"He was supposed to marry Erin!" her mother said, now visibly trembling where she sat. "And then you came along—"

"Wait. Hold on. For fuck's sake—"

Her father straightened up, stiff as a board.

"Don't you swear at your mother."

"Ade's not the father," Rose said, her eyes never leaving her mother's face. "We never had sex."

"Oh!" Mrs Sulford put her hand to her chest as if Rose had just described the sex act itself.

"This happened in London, before I even came here."

Rose's statement caused the blood to drain from her mother's face and her dad emitted an angry scoff. _What now?_

"What?" she asked fiercely. "Will you just stop being disappointed with me and tell me what the hell's upsetting you so much?"

"How dare you stand there and make demands of us," her mother said in a strangled voice.

"Well, don't sit there and judge me."

Her mother looked away as if in disgust. Rose's eyes locked on her father's. Since he could barely look at her or speak to her these days, it seemed to be with conscious effort that he didn't look away as well.

"Dad," Rose said softly, the title almost sounding odd to her ears. "Why don't you talk to me anymore?"

"Don't upset your father!" her mother snapped.

"Let him answer! If he's upset—"

"You're a prostitute," her dad said, his voice crackling at the end.

His words hung in the air giving the room an eerie quality. Rose's head began to buzz in the silence. The words had sounded wrong coming from his mouth. Both her parents now looked at her with sorrow prominent in their eyes. Rose's throat tightened and her mouth ran dry.

"How…" she began, forcing the word out.

"Jimmy," her dad said.

"Such a nice boy," Mrs Sulford added. "You broke his heart."

 _Jimmy_ , Rose thought. Jimmy Dodd. Corporal James Dodd. Her boyfriend once upon a time. And how did _he_ know? Rose thought he had only heard she worked at the Rendezvous strip club. And she had set him straight about her being a cloakroom attendant and not a stripper.

"I don't…" Rose said, tears welling in her eyes. _I don't do that anymore_. She was beginning to sound like a broken and pointless record. Her skin was prickling. This was the worst of all her nightmares—people in her ordinary life knowing about her darkest secret. But she wasn't a prostitute. She no longer worked in the sex industry. Couldn't she ever rid herself of the label?

Mr Sulford finally looked away from her, his shoulders drooping as if a heavy burden had descended on him. Perhaps he had suffered further disappointment by Rose not denying the accusation outright.

Rose's mother, by contrast, continued gazing at her daughter with a look of defiance, her chin tilting upwards, as if she was somehow vindicated by the truth coming out at last.

"And you never thought to ask me about it?" Rose asked in a small voice. Her heart felt like paper.

"What?" her mother asked incredulously. "Over a cup of tea?"

"Yes!" Rose snapped. "A cup of tea! It would've been nice to have been asked directly, instead of being gossiped about behind my back. I had my reasons, if you ever cared to ask."

"And have you been carrying on while you've been here?" Mrs Sulford asked, a pained look on her face.

"Carrying on?"

"Having…" Mrs Sulford swallowed her ugly thought. " _Sexual intercourse_ … for money."

Rose's dad's gaze was rooted to the floor, as if he wanted to sink through it rather than listen to this conversation.

"I'm not a... I haven't... worked in the industry for quite some time now."

" _Industry_ ," Mrs Sulford scoffed. "Obviously not now, not since…" She flung her hand out and waved it at Rose.

Rose's hand reflexively stole to her abdomen.

"For _quite some time,_ " she reiterated. "My pregnancy has nothing to do with that. I had a boyfriend. In London."

"A _boyfriend,_ " her mother repeated incredulously. "How can _you_ have a boyfriend? You can't manage to keep anyone around long enough to call them a _boyfriend_. You can't keep a job—"

"He's—"

"And you're not _keeping_ it are you?"

Rose gaped. Her mother's vicious tone initially threw her. But what an awful question. The idea of not going through with her pregnancy had never crossed her mind. _Her_ baby? _Sherlock's_ baby?

"This is your grandchild you're talking a—"

"Don't you dare!" her mother said vehemently, her nostrils flaring. "That… that thing you're carrying around—after some man paid to... That is not my—"

"How can you say that!"

"It's easy when we no longer think of you as our daughter!"

The words hit Rose like a slap in the face and she recoiled. Her father straightened up as if that was his cue. His eyes finally met Rose's and he reached out and placed a supportive hand on his wife's shoulder.

Rose turned and fled from the room. She felt, rather than saw, the loose gathering of relatives at the end of the entranceway, possibly having heard the drama unfold. She wrenched open the front door and escaped into the chilly and damp night air.

The rest of the weekend was a blur. Obviously, up and down the street her relatives spoke together in hushed tones behind closed doors, rallying around the unfortunate Sulfords, and what to do about their wayward daughter.

Pippa came to Rose late on Sunday night, her face apologetic, and her demeanour slightly cautious, as if Rose could turn rabid in the next second.

"I'm sorry, love," she said. Rose barely heard the rest of her prepared speech.

Pippa's parents owned the house, and… well, they couldn't possibly let her stay, now. How would it look?

"With strange men turning up at all hours?" Rose queried. She couldn't help herself. She was exhausted and fed up with this narrow-minded, small town mentality.

The next morning, after packing all night, Rose asked if Pippa's husband Luke could drive her and her belongings to a friend's place. Pippa had hastily replied that Luke was busy.

"I just saw him in the garden a second ago, picking flowers with Aaron and Mia."

"Well, now he's busy. Perhaps you'd like to call a cab?"

Rose had heard Pippa calling her family inside, in an urgent, frantic voice earlier. Did she think Rosemarie, the harlot from London, was going to infect her family with her debaucherous ways?

Rose rang the only other person she knew who had a suitable vehicle at their disposal and who might have the heart to help her.

Adrian appeared within ten minutes of her call. Rose heard the sound of raised voices coming from the main house before the adjoining door burst open. Adrian breezed through, flicking the door shut behind him, shutting off Pippa's protests. He would've heard all the gossip by now. He hadn't been present at Uncle Denis's birthday party, but surely tongues had been wagging up and down Craigleith Hill Gardens.

"Fucking hell," he said, beaming widely. "They say you're a prostitute now," he added casually, as if he'd just heard that Rose was a shop assistant.

"Was," she replied.

"I thought you were a stripper," he said, bending down to pick up a box containing Rose's books.

"I'm multi-talented," she replied humourlessly.

"Well… you know what I think…"

"I really don't want to know, Ade."

"Could you unlock the side gate for us? Pippa's in a right fucking mood. I don't want to go through the house again."

Rose preceded Ade outside and up the path beside the house. She unlocked the side access gate, and propped it open using a brick from the garden. She went back inside to retrieve some of her smaller possessions and began loading them into the back of Ade's pickup truck.

"Is that it?" Ade asked a few minutes later, as Rose quickly scanned the living area of the basement flat she'd been calling home over the last two months.

"I travel light these days," she replied with a sigh. It was true. Each time she had moved in the past year, she'd offloaded more and more of her possessions.

After locking the back door to the basement and the side gate, Rose held out her keys to Adrian.

"Could you give these to Pippa for me?"

Rose waited by the car, while Ade stepped up to the front porch and knocked on the door. It was opened almost immediately by Mia, who was pushed aside by her six-year-old brother. Mia called after him in protest, and they both arrived, breathless, and jostling for position, in front of Rose. Both Mia and Aaron were clutching flowers and a good variety of weeds from the garden—so enthusiastically plucked they still sported their roots and a great deal of garden soil. The children thrust their floral arrangements towards Rose as an embarrassed Luke came up behind them.

"Oi, wait," he said, reaching out and flicking the soil from the bottom of the plants.

Rose's eyes were burning with tears and she dared not blink.

"Why'd ye 'ave-tae go?" Mia asked.

"Oh… I've got friends to visit," Rose said, forcing a smile to her face. She accepted the flowers graciously and bent down to kiss each child on the top of their head.

Aaron immediately sprinted back inside the house, while Mia said mournfully, "Goodbye, Rosemarie. I love ye," before she, too, took off inside. Luke raised a hand in a half wave and gave Rose an embarrassed smile. He turned to the house, almost colliding with Adrian. He gave Ade a playful whack on the arm and continued up to the door. Pippa stood in the doorway, her arms folded in front of her. She gave her husband a tight smile before they both disappeared inside.

"It's all sorted," Ade said, gesturing toward his truck. He opened the cab door for Rose and added, "Don't ye worry about those cunts. They'll come round."

Rose gave Ade the address to Indira's place—a two bedroom flat in Newington. She stared out of the window during the drive, and attempted to suppress her tears. Tears of rage or sorrow—she wasn't sure. Adrian was uncharacteristically silent.

Once they'd pulled up outside Indira's flat, Rose was greeted by her uni friend. She thanked Indira profusely for letting her stay for a few days on such short notice until she'd got herself sorted. After they'd piled Rose's belongings in the narrow entranceway, Indira offered tea. Adrian declined, saying he had to get back to work.

Rose joined him on the kerb in front of his truck so she could say goodbye.

"Thanks so much—" she began.

"Is it mine?"

Rose wasn't sure she heard him correctly. Ade had his hands shoved into his jeans pockets, and he shifted restlessly.

"Sorry, what?"

"Is it… mine." He nodded his head toward Rose, his eyes dropping to her stomach.

Rose opened her mouth to reply, but was still momentarily thrown by the question. Ade was studying her, a flicker of panic crossing his face when she failed to answer immediately.

"Why would you… how on earth… for Christ's sake, Ade. How is that even possible? When did—"

"Christmas Day," he said, his tone almost apologetic. "Night," he added, with a slight shake of his head to correct himself.

"What?"

"Well, I don't remember, I was… so drunk."

"If you were drunk, then how…" Rose stopped, for it had just dawned on her the source of all the gossip. "Did… did you tell everybody we had sex on Christmas night?"

"Not exactly."

" _Not exactly_?"

"Well, I didn't exactly deny it."

"Why not!"

Ade took a tiny step backwards.

"Because I didn't remember. I must've passed out."

"Yes, you did, Ade! You passed out!" Rose's cheeks began to burn, but she took in a calming breath before she continued. She didn't want to cause a scene in the middle of the street. "I went inside," she said. "To bed. Alone. I didn't know you were going to sleep there all night."

"So, we didn't—"

"No! Not even close!"

"Oh, thank the Lord!" Ade said, bowing his head and rubbing the back of his neck. "I was wondering how we managed it in a swing chair." He looked up and gave Rose a sheepish smile.

Rose couldn't believe him. Her whole life had gone to shit and Adrian was standing there making jokes. But as conflicting emotions jostled for dominance, she knew this wasn't entirely his fault. Her reputation had already preceded her, apparently, before she'd ever set foot in Edinburgh.

"I've got to go," she said, taking a step towards the flat. "Thanks, again."

"Will you keep in touch?"

"No."

"Oh," he said, smiling weakly. "You're still angry with me about the stripper thing."

"A bit."

Rose sighed deeply as Adrian moved towards her. She looked up and down the street then hugged her body as a chilly wind whipped around them.

"What you don't understand," she began, "is that I worked in that industry ages ago. It was probably the lowest point in my life. Except for now." She gave Ade a wan smile. "This comes pretty close."

When he made a move towards her, Rose held up her hand.

"Don't, Ade." He stopped, suddenly unsure of himself. "It was the worst time in my life. I degraded and humiliated myself… for money." She watched as a flush crept across Adrian's cheeks. But his discomfort was the least of her concerns. "So the next time you and your mates think it's cool that you know a prostitute and want to have a bit of fun… think about me and my life. My _actual_ life. Because it wasn't _fun_ , Ade."

Rose's breath caught in her throat. Before she could give in to her emotions, she turned for the flat and left Adrian alone on the pavement.

* * *

Rose's silence caused Sherlock to panic a little. He cleared his throat and thought to add, "If that's all right."

He'd just told her that technically _she_ owned the house. Her name was on the title, after all. During the tour of their newly-purchased home in Morningside, they hadn't made it any further than the entrance hall. Rose stood still, looking slightly pale. Sherlock thought he'd made a huge mistake. But then she blinked and her eyes were immediately swimming with tears. She valiantly wiped them away and Sherlock was relieved to see a smile forming on her lips. She reached for him and sighed against his chest when he enveloped her in his embrace.

"I've never owned anything bigger than a… microwave oven," she said. She drew away, looking around again and taking in the view of the foyer. There wasn't much to see, Sherlock thought. The place was completely void of furniture.

Almost completely.

Rose tilted her head and examined the ornate cornicing around the high ceiling before her gaze rested on the brilliant white staircase winding upwards with its emerald green carpeting.

"Well, you're going to have to buy another microwave oven, I'm afraid," Sherlock said. "I asked them to remove all of the existing appliances and white goods."

"Why?"

"Because they were hideously outdated—five years old apparently."

"Just... five years?" Rose said faintly.

"Yes, they'd remodelled the kitchen, or… something." Sherlock waved a flippant hand toward the door leading to the kitchen. He was already bored with the subject matter. "Anyway… the kitchen's through here isn't it?"

He remembered the layout from the floor plan he'd been sent by the estate agent. This was the first time either of them had set foot inside the house. It didn't look as bright and airy as the photos showed, but it was still more spacious than any place Rose had ever lived in, Sherlock surmised. He had declined a viewing prior to the purchase, opting to throw huge sums of money at the seller, above and beyond what they had asked for so they could clear all their stuff out and let the _Williams Estate_ have the place that very weekend, no questions asked. Sherlock had correctly deduced the exact sum of money that would elicit such a positive response from the seller.

There was a hasty exchange of contract, and an even hastier removal of the hired furniture that had been provided purely for marketing purposes. Fortunately, the seller wasn't actually living in the house at the time.

When they entered the kitchen, Sherlock was relieved to see the replacement appliances had been installed—organised by a newly-appointed interior decorating company, who had the responsibility for purchasing and arranging their installation. All except a microwave oven. He'd forgotten about that one. But if they'd managed to do that, then this was a good sign for what Rose may find in two of the other rooms he had deemed necessary to hold furniture.

Sherlock cleared his throat and waited for Rose's reaction. He was thoroughly enjoying himself. Perhaps he should go around buying houses for people he cared about more often. It gave him a warm feeling of satisfaction. Money and possession were such odd things for ordinary people.

"Wow," was all she said, her words carried on her exhale.

Rose strode across the room towards the bay window. Sherlock knew she was struggling not to cry.

"This is where the dining table would go," she said, indicating the large, empty space in front of the window. "I saw it in the photos. But look…"

Sherlock joined her at the window, where Rose threaded her fingers into his.

She gave a satisfied sigh, and said, "It needs a bit of work." Sherlock hummed agreeably and made a mental note to hire a gardener. "Did you like being out in the garden when you were a child?" Rose asked, as they looked through the window at the scraggly garden outside, consisting of half-pruned shrubs and uneven stone paths.

Sherlock thought for a moment.

"Yes… and no."

His own internal conflict regarding his childhood and outdoor adventure games came to the fore. The conflicting emotions had always puzzled him. He often assumed it was about losing Redbeard, his pet dog. His family had to get him put down for reasons unknown. But then the murky waters would ripple over his memories, and he was left with nothing but a feeling of unease.

Rose turned to him, her eyes glistening once more.

"I can't believe this, Sherlock," she said in a small voice. "You organised this so quickly."

Sherlock gave her a half-smile in return. What was the point in delaying these things? He wanted Rose to be safe and settled in one place—a place of her own—and not feeling as if she was waiting to begin their life together while living out of a suitcase. He knew she was putting on a brave front about him returning to London tomorrow, but she had encouraged him to go, saying he needed to be Sherlock Holmes in London now and again. Lestrade did sound a bit desperate on the phone that morning.

"I'm sure Harold Blessington is the culprit," Sherlock had reassured Rose after he told her he was needed by the Scotland Yard D.I. "He poisoned his wife and her lover. The signs are all there. I'll have this solved within a day and be back before you know it."

"There's no rush. You know how busy I get with studying. Just don't lose track of time. I'm due in September, don't forget."

"I'll be back well before that."

"And I'm having a scan in about a month, if you wanted to—"

"Well before that, too."

So while Rose was at university that Friday afternoon, after her morning cleaning job, Sherlock had organised the house and the furnishings in a matter of hours. That they were able to take possession of the property and move in on the weekend took Rose by surprise. Why do other people prolong these things?

As he looked down at her now, he still harboured a deep regret for not returning to Edinburgh soon enough. His presence may have prevented her falling out with her family or reduced the enormous toll the emotional upheaval had placed on her.

"I just want you to be happy," he said.

Rose's face softened and she reached up and caressed Sherlock's cheek.

" _You_ make me happy," she replied, her eyes searching his. "It's not the house, or the financial support or a new microwave oven—it's you. And it's taken me far too long to realise that."

Sherlock's throat constricted a little, and he endeavoured to clear it.

"Yes… well, you haven't seen the rest of the house yet," he quipped, desperate not to turn this into another moment where Rose got all serious and teary.

He gave her a broad smile and was relieved to hear her light chuckle. Grabbing her by the hand, Sherlock led Rose into the adjoining room—the drawing room. Rose's delicate gasp was all he needed to hear.

.

* * *


	81. Just Like Old Times

_Like Cluedo without the prompt cards,_ she had said.

Okay, then. Sherlock was up for anything— _almost_ anything—but he hastily changed his mind about buying houses for those he cared about if there was a requirement to "christen every room" as Rose had informed him. Could get awkward.

At first, he was confused.

"What do you mean, we have to christen every room? Give it a name and allocate Godparents?"

When Rose had finished laughing, she explained.

Cluedo without the prompt cards meant… Oh! And there wasn't any stress about who did what to whom and with which weapon. Only the location would be specified. That meant he could improvise!

"So…" Sherlock began, reaching for another chip. "Is there a time-frame involved? Because we have a lot of square meterage to cover."

Rose swallowed her own mouthful and chuckled lightly. They were sitting outside on the second floor balcony. There were no chairs, so they sat on the ground, leaning up against the glass sliding door that led to the empty top floor room inside. To their right, the sun had dipped behind the buildings along their street, giving the sky an apricot glow.

"How about we only use the rooms that are furnished?" Rose said. "The kitchen, the drawing room and the bedroom; so that's only three times in one night. Are you up for that?"

"Well, technically the bathroom is fully functional—"

"But we'll only use that for foreplay, on our way to the bedroom…"

Sherlock furrowed his brow, but Rose was way ahead of him.

"The bathroom floor's tiled," she said. "And the landing, or whatever you call that space outside our bedroom, and I checked… it's floorboards. There's floorboards in the bedroom, except for that rug your interior decorating friends put there, so we'll roll it up or something. Minimal water damage going from the bathroom to the bedroom. And the owner doesn't mind a few drops of water on the bedsheets."

She smiled triumphantly and plucked another chip from the takeaway container that sat in Sherlock's lap.

Sherlock pretended to be considering their options, when he was really luxuriating in the feeling that all was right with the world. In _his_ world, anyway. The leg pressed against Rose's was already feeling warmed. He placed the almost empty chip container on the other side of him and was thinking about suggesting they head inside.

When Rose's hand stole across his lap, he was jolted out of his reverie.

"Christ!"

Rose chuckled, her face bright with mischief. It wasn't a chip she was after. She drew him to her and her mouth was suddenly on his. Her kiss was instantly hot, her intention and desperation quite clear. Sherlock happily succumbed until her hand began working in earnest through the fabric of his jeans.

"No… wait," he said, his voice fraying at the edges. "The balcony wasn't part of the—"

"The balcony's fully functional," Rose whispered, attempting to narrow the gap between them once more.

Sherlock made a statement of moving her hand from his lap before it could misbehave again.

"No. It doesn't have any chairs. I need at least one chair and—"

"A table?"

"An ashtray."

"Fine," Rose said in a semi-huff before rising and smoothing out her clothing. "I'll meet you in the kitchen."

She left him to inhale deeply and enable blood to flow to his brain once more, for it had become pooled elsewhere. Sherlock claimed the last chip, then grabbed the empty takeaway container. He headed downstairs to find Rose.

She wasn't waiting for him in the kitchen, as it turned out. He deposited the rubbish and was just washing his hands in the kitchen sink when Rose entered. She had changed into her dressing gown and had brought the quilt from their bed.

"What's… that for?" Sherlock asked dubiously.

"The counter's too hard and cold," she said before plopping the bedcover onto the smooth granite surface and spreading it out a little.

"This is sounding less spontaneous by the second."

"Who said it has to be spontaneous?"

"Well… it doesn't seem… authentic."

Rose laughed once more, then turned around and hoisted herself onto the island counter. She rearranged herself, ensuring her dressing gown was held closed with a certain degree of decorum, although Sherlock did catch a glimpse of a lacy bra and matching knickers. She hadn't been wearing that combination earlier.

Their previous conversation on the balcony, Rose's initial kiss and fondle, combined with images of the last time they played Cluedo, all swirled around Sherlock's conscious mind and set him on a course of action. He tossed the tea towel over his shoulder—not caring if it landed in the sink or not—before he made his approach.

As Rose leant back on one arm, she reminded him of an oil painting by one of the old masters.

 _Perhaps all of the old masters. Or a young master? Can you have young masters?_ Sherlock couldn't remember. Boring detail anyway.

He stopped short at the end of the counter and reached for Rose. He yanked her towards him, causing her to yelp and giggle in surprise. Sliding a hand inside her gown, he was able to part it, exposing her cleavage—visual stimulation—before bringing his mouth to hers. She hummed in delight, her hands reaching up to curl into his hair. Rose's enthusiasm matched his. She pulled him close, wrapping her legs around him.

With a deft flick of his fingers, Sherlock had unclasped Rose's bra. She relinquished her hold on him to finish undressing, then she attempted to pull his t-shirt out of his jeans. Stepping back momentarily, he tugged the shirt over his head before dropping it to the floor. Sherlock shivered a little. The kitchen wasn't heated at the moment.

Back within Rose's grasp, he allowed her to unzip him, but then he had another idea.

"Lie back," he bid her. He gently helped Rose lie down and make herself comfortable on the quilt.

He moved from the end of the counter to the side, sliding a warming hand the length of Rose's body. Tiny gasps of pleasure escaped her lips when Sherlock bent his head and skimmed his lips over the soft skin of her neck. His hand continued caressing her, but he could feel her impatience. Beneath his lips, the pulse in her throat quickened. He slid his hand lower, finally dipping into her knickers and eliciting a desperate moan from her.

She tried to reach for him as he sought her breast with his mouth and flicked his tongue over her nipple. Her cold hands brushed the exposed skin on his hip and he recoiled.

"Not yet," he said. He wanted to bring her to the edge, arouse her beyond measure and draw out her orgasm so the wait was worth it. He didn't want any attention directed towards himself at the moment, but... Christ! Why were her hands so cold?

With a disappointed sigh, Rose dropped her hand to the counter. Sherlock paused as the temperature of the room pressed in on him. Was it Rose's exhale that caused her body to still momentarily? Sherlock withdrew his hand, his brow furrowed.

Turning her head towards him, Rose asked, "What?"

_The flesh, her flesh, so pale and cold and…_

"What?" she asked again.

_And the counter. The kitchen counter. Kitchen counters are designed at a standard height of thirty-six inches. While the height of a post-mortem examination table is adjustable, the ones_ _I've_ _—_

"Sherlock?"

_Post-mortems. Dead bodies._

An accelerated montage of all the bodies of the deceased he had ever seen or examined in Bart's mortuary flashed before his eyes. All naked. Some female.

"Um… no," he said, taking a step back.

"What's the matter?"

"This…" He waved a hand at the kitchen counter. "It's all wrong."

Rose moved to a semi-sitting position. Sherlock seized his chance to scoop her up from the counter and lower her to the floor. She stood, shivering, her face awash with concern.

"Ah… the room's not fully functional," he said, gesturing toward the empty space where the dining table ought to have sat. "And this… the height… It's… too high. I prefer the table."

"But, you—"

He grabbed the quilt from the counter and swept from the room.

The welcoming warmth of the drawing room fire embraced him. Sherlock was glad he had thought to light it earlier. Rose clicked the door shut behind them and followed him to the occasional chairs that sat in front of the fireplace. She sighed in satisfaction and rubbed her arms.

"Why didn't we start here? It's so much warmer."

"I've no idea."

Relief drizzled through him as he spread the quilt over the rug upon which the chairs sat. Rose wasn't angry or upset that he'd brought their antics to an abrupt halt. Clearly she was only too familiar with his oddities. Perhaps she even liked that about him.

As he straightened up, Rose approached him. She smiled affectionately and drew her arms around his neck.

"Start again?" she whispered.

Sherlock hummed agreeably, internally tutting at whatever had happened just then to transport him to Bart's mortuary. He bowed his head when Rose stood on her toes, and their mouths met again in a soft, tender kiss. He found it so arousing to have Rose pressed up against him when she was almost completely naked, and he was shirtless. He savoured her taste, feeling the warmth and the need rising from her.

He wanted to go slowly, even though they had an agenda. This night was going to end eventually, and the morning would bring with it a commute back to London and a life away from Rose.

They progressed to the quilt and repositioned themselves after Sherlock had removed his jeans. He was keen to return Rose to the state in which he'd left her in the kitchen. With patience and concentration, he navigated every curve of her body until she moaned in pleasure. He felt his stomach yearn, but kept himself in check. As he traced a line along her thigh, she arched, her breath ending on his name.

Sherlock's own body throbbed and ached, but he kept to his task, his tongue replacing his hands. Rose's breath was thick and unsteady until it caught and released in a rush. He knew he had her. Her hands dived into his hair, urging him on. Sherlock indulged himself in the feel and the taste of her with the sound of her pleasure music to his ears. He gripped her hips, feeling the orgasm rip though her.

Sherlock surveyed all that he had done, and a low laugh rumbled through him. He brought himself up and curled around Rose, his own body tingling with fresh but unmet arousal.

"Here…" Rose said faintly, turning to face him.

"No, not yet. Just enjoy the moment," Sherlock replied.

He held her tightly, feeling the tension leave her body. It was an entirely satisfying feeling, experiencing her complete and utter surrender from start to finish, and not have his own climax draining all coherent thought from his mind.

But it wasn't long before Rose stirred once more.

"Come on," she said, rubbing his arm. "Let's have a bath."

They had an interlude of sorts, practicalities having to win over any further passionate encounters. Sherlock found it extremely difficult to be at all helpful—his persistent erection directed his train of thought to only one possible destination.

"I'm sure they're here somewhere," Rose said, rifling through a box in search of her bathroom supplies. It didn't help that she had remained naked throughout the entire search. Not that he was any more modest, but at least he was clad in boxer trunks.

"Oh, that's right," Rose said sheepishly. "I put them in my bag so they'd be easy to find."

Sherlock tutted. He could've deduced their whereabouts if Rose hadn't initially said she was sure she remembered putting them in the top of a box. An unreliable witness. It didn't matter. The bathtub was taking an age to fill anyway.

Rose drifted into the bathroom with her shampoo, conditioner and soap, calling back to Sherlock to bring the towels. He had to search through another box for those. By the time he entered the bathroom, Rose had arranged her supplies on the floor beside the tub and was dipping her toe in the water to test it. Sherlock tutted. Did people really do that?

And then he shivered again. Christ! Why did Rose keep suggesting places to get their kit off when the temperatures were below freezing? At least Sherlock had the sense to check that the bedroom heater was on and functioning.

Sherlock looked toward the ceiling. Rose had only turned on the overhead light and not the heating lamps. He reached for the switches by the door and toggled a couple. One was the extractor fan, and the other…

Ah…

He tutted. One of the dual heating lamps wasn't working. Rose stood in front of Sherlock, arranging her hair into a temporary bun. She followed his gaze.

"No, Sherlock."

"No, what?"

"You're not fixing that now."

Rose climbed into the bath, emitting a satisfied sigh as she did so.

"I'm leaving in the morning," Sherlock began. He toggled the switch once more for good measure. "I'm not leaving you here with a half-functioning heat lamp."

"I'm perfectly capable of changing a lightbulb."

"It's not just any bulb."

"I'm perfectly capable of changing any kind of bulb. Now get in. If you want warmth, this is where it is."

Sherlock tutted once more. Rose had moved to the centre of the tub, hugging her knees as she usually did. She busied herself cleaning or whatever. It was her way of avoiding looking at his erection as he slid off his underwear. Because that's what it was, wasn't it? A way of reducing Sherlock's embarrassment. That was something she did for him, because she cared.

Still, he removed his underwear quickly and silently, then slid into the bathtub behind Rose. She didn't lean back into him as she usually did. Instead, she stood up and turned around. Sherlock knew what that meant. He straightened his legs, allowing Rose to sit astride him, facing him. It meant she was already getting to the business end of their bathing routine, which usually commenced with Sherlock massaging Rose, while working up a lather and her arousal simultaneously. Clearly, she'd deemed that step unnecessary this time round. Sherlock had already dealt with her needs in the drawing room.

Rose had his soap—not hers—in her hand. His was more suitable for sensitive skin, while hers irritated it. He liked the scent of coconut on her skin, but he couldn't abide it on his own.

Rose lathered the soap while Sherlock tilted his head back. He had learnt long ago that he was required to relax during this bit. Rose had instructed him to.

 _Lathered chest, neck and arms,_ he thought, taking stock several minutes later. _Yes, yes, all very well, but…_

_Oh, Christ, Rose!_

A low moan escaped Sherlock's lips. He didn't mind this involuntary utterance now. It was always good to let Rose know she was doing a superb job. She had a firm grip; she had settled into a good rhythm. Lots of soap required. Water was the enemy here. It washed away the lather—the _lubricant_. Even foreplay wasn't a complete affair in the bathtub. Sherlock knew this. He had made a list of all the reasons why sex in the bath wasn't a good idea. But still Rose persisted.

His body tingled all over. He was shifting into that phase of mindless… mindless _something_. But suddenly Rose was up on her knees.

"No, Rose," he said, struggling to form coherent words. "No—"

"—sex in the bath," she finished with him. "I know. I just wanted to kiss you."

She bent low, maintaining a gap between their bodies so her hand could continue its deft work. Her mouth was warm, yet demanding. She'd become aroused herself, Sherlock concluded. And why wouldn't she? He knew how much it thrilled him whenever he witnessed Rose's undoing by his own hand. She was experiencing the same watching him.

Sherlock clutched her body, his tongue entwining with hers. His desire quickening, he suddenly wanted to reach that final peak; he needed all of her. He pulled her towards him, craving more, but Rose must've had the same idea, because now…

Dammit. Now they were having sex in the bath.

The sensation was thrilling, yet… annoying. Rose's mouth was hot on his, desperate hands clutched at his hair and he was absorbed in her coconut scent.

But, really…

"Rose," he said urgently, tearing away. "Stand up."

"What?" she asked breathlessly.

"Up. Get off. Stand up."

Her eyes were huge, but her brow arched in confusion. She must've thought he'd panicked about something again. Rose stood and backed away, giving Sherlock room to stand up. But it was far from over. He wanted to take her where they stood.

And all this, in a way, was what bound them together. His initial innocence and confusion with regard to sex. Her patient understanding. His growing hunger and awakening of his own sexual desires. Her encouragement. And now their appetites matched and were mostly in sync. But now and again Sherlock's unpredictable actions were open to interpretation, and he guessed this was one such occasion.

Wordlessly, Sherlock gathered Rose in his arms and pressed her against the tiled wall above the bathtub. To her credit, she was immediately on the same page. Slightly breathless, she clung to him. His mind became clouded as the heat of their passion was all-consuming. Rose's breath came in short bursts and she gripped him, urging him on.

Then he slipped, ever so slightly, but it was enough of a warning that they weren't exactly on stable ground. Rose gasped. She'd felt it. Sherlock was suddenly aware of her fragility. Her _condition_. Which must be protected at all costs.

He gently lowered her to the tub and gingerly stepped out. After dropping a towel to the now wet floor, he assisted Rose to climb out, too. But she reached for him again, pulling him towards some unknown destination, her eyes darkened by an unfulfilling encounter. The bedroom? Of course! But Sherlock wasn't entirely convinced that the bedroom was the most creative way to continue their endeavour. He pulled Rose back toward the wall outside the bathroom. He sensed her eagerness, knowing she wanted him to take her this way, even before she pulled him into her. His body was alive with the taste and touch of her. Every nerve was ignited.

This wasn't exactly a new position for them, but definitely one for happier times. Sherlock had been crashing on cocaine the last time he had Rose like this. He wasn't sure what his mental state had been back then, but he was feeling exhilarated right now.

Rose's fingers dug into Sherlock's shoulders and her shortened breath was expelled on exquisite gasps of pleasure. Sherlock knew she was teetering on the brink. He could feel his own blood pounding through his body. Rose moved with him, matching his pace, her hands growing more insistent. When her body shuddered, he could tell she was there. He relinquished control and let himself go, propelling them both to the edge and beyond.

* * *

Sherlock checked all the locks on the doors and windows downstairs. He put the fire guard back in front of the fire place, then returned to the kitchen where he had left the kettle to boil. When he rejoined Rose in the bedroom, he found her sitting cross-legged on the bed, wearing her pyjamas, and combing through her wet hair with a text book open in front of her and several notebooks scattered in a rough semi-circle around her.

"I thought you'd got lost," she said, looking up briefly. She did a double-take upon noticing Sherlock carrying cups of tea and her face split into a broad, happy grin.

They sat in cozy silence together—Rose studying and Sherlock solving a case via email. It was the most interesting email case to come in today, but unfortunately, he barely rated it a four. Rose's phone beeped with a message, and Sherlock cast a sideways glance at her. She smiled before she began tapping away at a reply. He wondered to whom and about what she was texting.

Rose placed her phone back down onto her bedside table once she'd finished, then leant over and kissed Sherlock's cheek.

"Indira," she said.

"What?"

"Indira, my friend from uni," she replied. "I stayed with her for a few days while I was looking for accommodation." Rose closed her books and swivelled out of bed. "Remember?" she prompted, briefly looking back at Sherlock before she rose. "I told you."

Sherlock hummed in vague agreement, then watched as Rose cleared her study items from the bedcovers and piled them onto a chair by the window. Of course he remembered her recount about being ousted by her family. There was something else that had bothered him, but Rose was too upset at the time for him to question her about it. He cleared his throat. Now was the opportune time for him to find out more. Rose was extremely happy and content—the perfect antidote to probing into the darkest times in her life.

"I was telling her you were back in my life again," Rose said. She made her way over to the dressing table and picked up a hair tie.

"You told her I was back in your life?"

"Well, not you by name," she replied, gathering her hair up into a pony-tail. "Just you as the father of my baby. I said we were together again, and were going to make a go of it."

"A go of it?"

"Yes. You know…"

"No."

"A relationship."

"Oh," Sherlock replied, storing the phrase in his Mind Palace for later use. "Okay."

Rose gave Sherlock an affectionate smile before she crossed the room to the ensuite bathroom.

"I spent a bit of time crying on her shoulder about everything. She did say she always knew you were the one."

"The one what?"

Rose disappeared inside the bathroom, but left the door open.

"The one for me," she called back.

Sherlock drew in a patient breath and decided to google the phrase, rather than have Rose explain to him every term pertaining to relationships.

Satisfied with the explanation, he returned his phone to the bedside table. He still had a question to ask Rose, so he decided to join her in the bathroom. It would seem like an innocent enquiry if he posed it while they were brushing their teeth together. Much more casual, then. He concluded it was difficult to cry if you were brushing your teeth.

"So…" he began, reaching for his toothbrush. Rose was bent low over the sink, rinsing her mouth. "Who's Adrian, again? I've forgotten. Something about family, but not really."

Rose had her back to him as she turned to wipe her face on a hand towel.

"I did tell you," she said, sweeping past him and wearing a neutral expression. "He's Malcolm's best friend. Since they were kids."

"And Malcolm's your…"

"Cousin," she called back from the bedroom. Second cousin, actually."

Sherlock was left to brush his teeth nursing a dull ache in his chest. So Adrian _wasn't_ family. That was sort of a relief, because it would've been a bit weird for her otherwise. But still. He _wasn't_ family.

When he re-entered the bedroom, Sherlock gave a light cough. Rose had switched off the main bedroom light and was now reading a smaller book by the light of her bedside lamp.

"And why did he…" Sherlock continued, before turning back to switch off the bathroom light. "Why did he think he was the father?"

He rounded the bed not making eye contact with Rose. He tried to keep his movements relaxed and casual-looking, but he wasn't sure if his pantomime was a success. There was something about Christmas and swing-chairs and assumptions about sex that just didn't gel with him.

Sherlock heard an almost imperceptible sigh from Rose as he climbed into bed.

"He fancied me," she said, her eyes still on her page.

"And how does that bring about conception?"

Sherlock rearranged the pillows behind him. Pretty soon he was going to run out of things to casually attend to, and this would end up being quite an intense conversation—something he had been trying to avoid by instigating it in the bathroom.

Rose smoothed a hand across her page. Clearly it was a delicate subject to bring up, Sherlock deduced, and she needed a moment to gather her thoughts. He fervently hoped by now she was above telling lies to spare his feelings.

"He was so drunk he didn't remember if we did anything or not."

Sherlock knew this. Rose had already told him during her recount. But what he still didn't understand—

"And because everybody already knew I was either a stripper or a prostitute in London," she continued, "nobody questioned the fact that we could've had sex after meeting that day. My immoral behaviour was perfectly consistent with what they had already heard about me."

"I see," he said, his chest tightening as feelings of intense dislike for Rose's family and what they had put her through came to the fore once more.

Rose closed up her book and placed it on her bedside table. She flicked off her lamp, leaving the room bathed in the light from Sherlock's side of the bed. She sank under the covers. The pain in Sherlock's chest hadn't eased at all.

Rose had turned to her side and was facing him. Sherlock was about to turn off his lamp when Rose called his name in a voice barely above a whisper.

"Mm?"

"I kissed him."

At first, Sherlock didn't understand her remark. She was looking up at him, her eyes dark and round. He swallowed. How was he supposed to respond to this?

"On New Year's Eve," she added.

"Oh."

"I was drunk, and…"

"Rose. You don't need to—"

"And upset. But that's not really an excuse."

"We weren't… together," Sherlock hastily added. For whose benefit? His own? And how did this compare to him kissing Janine. But that was for a case. This was different. Wasn't it?

He reached over and switched off his lamp. Rose was silent. Sherlock could feel his heart pounding in his chest. He slid underneath the covers, and rolled to his side. Reaching out, he slid a comforting hand the length of Rose's arm. She shuffled into him.

"I pushed you away," he said to her. "What you did then… none of that matters."

"I loved you."

"I know."

"Even then. I don't know why…"

She trailed off, and Sherlock's eyes began to prickle. He didn't understand, even though he had implied he did. He had never thought someone else could replace Rose, even after she had left him. He knew she loved him at the time she said goodbye to him on Christmas Eve. Because they loved each other, he had decided to fight for them to be together some day. He felt an odd sense of bewilderment that Rose hadn't been of the same mindset—that she had kissed another man one week after leaving London.

He'd heard the phrase "I was drunk" to explain a myriad of unacceptable human behaviours. When he was in his early twenties, Mycroft asked if Sherlock had meant what he'd said when he'd been high on one occasion. Sherlock had said of course he did. What he didn't tell his brother was that he didn't _remember_ what he told the insufferable git while high. But he was determined to take responsibility for his own utterances, high or not. Mycroft had seemed particularly upset, so Sherlock was sure whatever he'd said was probably appropriate for the occasion. At no time did he ever utter the words, "I was high; I didn't mean it."

Sherlock pressed his lips to Rose's forehead.

"I'm sorry," she whispered.

"You don't have anything to apologise for."

A tiny sob escaped her making Sherlock's insides twist. He held her close, eventually rolling onto his back so Rose could curl into his chest. She gave one final sniff and then shuffled up to plant a kiss on his cheek.

Sherlock held her where she was, his mouth seeking hers. His lips parted when hers did, and he kissed her tenderly and patiently. There was no doubting Rose's love for him. He concluded her actions were as mysterious and inexplicable to him as any other she had made in the past that were beyond his level of comprehension.

After their kiss broke and Rose had settled back onto his chest, he tangled his fingers into her hair and listened to the steady rhythm of her breathing.

Despite all she had said, his heart felt buoyant. For the first time in a long while, there was a certainty about his future. Their future. And there was an excitement about the unknown: parenthood.

"I love you," he said, a rough edge to his voice.

Not immediately receiving a response from Rose, Sherlock thought she'd fallen asleep. He could almost see a tangible outline of the words themselves, floating in the air in the darkness. He stared at them for a few seconds, admiring the weight of them. Although they were his words, they would always be a gift from him to her. He hoped she would keep them and carry them in her heart in his absence.

"I'll never get tired of hearing you say that," Rose said, her voice thickened by emotion.

"And I'll never tire of saying it."

Silence pressed in on them once more, before Rose repositioned herself. Sherlock could feel the tiny fluttering of her breath on his neck.

"I love you, too," she replied sleepily.


	82. Is There Anything You're Not Telling Me?

 

Sherlock twisted Harold Blessington's arm behind his back in such a way that the hapless murderer had to stoop forward before slowly sinking to his knees. The Consulting Detective whipped out his handcuffs from his coat pocket and secured his captive's hands behind his back. Blessington bowed his head and whimpered.

Sherlock looked toward John. The soldier hadn't moved from his place in front of the tattered sofa. He stood frozen to the spot, his eyes large, his jaw set squarely and a darkened patch prominent on his trousers from hip to hip, crossing his crotch. Sherlock tutted and shook his head lightly.

"What were you thinking?" he said to John, as he rose from his position on the floor by Blessington.

John's shoulders drooped in disappointment as Sherlock pulled out his phone and rapidly dialled Lestrade's number.

* * *

"So bloody tired all the time," John said, raking a weary hand down his face as they climbed the stairs to 221B.

"Clearly."

John continued up to his old room on the second floor while Sherlock crossed the landing. John had told him he may have a spare pair of jeans in a box of random belongings he'd left behind when he moved out after Sherlock's  _absence_. He was going to wash his tea-stained jeans in Mrs Hudson's washing machine so he wouldn't have to explain to Mary why he'd accepted a cup of tea from a man they suspected to have poisoned his wife and her lover. But Sherlock explained that they may need them as evidence.

It was only thanks to the detective's skills in frisbeeing a cushion in his direction that John was spared ingesting the potentially deadly beverage. The tea cup was to his lips at the time.

Sherlock filled the kettle wondering if John would still want a cup of tea. Perhaps his former flatmate would prefer something stronger if he couldn't stay awake on the job?

He heard John's sigh before he saw him.

"Evidence's in the bag," John said, dropping a plastic bin bag onto the kitchen table.

Sherlock glanced behind him then dunked tea bags into the mugs. John had hitched up his replacement jeans a couple of times. Of course they'd be two sizes too big now. The newly-minted father had lost almost eight pounds since becoming a parent and having to conform to Mary's "post-baby diet." No wonder his friend was grumpy and tired all the time. It wasn't just a lack of sleep; it was a lack of carbohydrates. Sherlock heaped a teaspoon of sugar into John's cup out of sympathy.

John was standing by the living room window looking out onto the street when Sherlock brought their mugs of tea into the room. Now was the perfect opportunity. But how to begin? The expectant father had been brainstorming a dozen ways to bring up the topic of not only his relationship with Rose, but the news about her pregnancy. His own impending fatherhood.

Over the last twenty-four hours of being back in London, Sherlock hadn't found the right moment. The case had been a welcome distraction, but now they were alone. Just the two of them. And this was a conversation that was just begging to be had.

"Christ, I can't do this anymore," John said, bowing his head and shaking it a little.

"Do what?" Sherlock said, momentarily frozen to the spot holding the hot drinks.

John stood with his hands lightly placed on his hips, staring, unseeing, at the rug. He drew in a calming breath.

"Sorry, no. I don't mean this," he said, gesturing between the two of them.

Sherlock furrowed his brow and continued walking, perching John's tea on the living room table, then taking up his own seat in front of his computer. He decided to leave John in peace for a moment to sort out his own thoughts. The list of email cases cluttering the detective's inbox suddenly looked appealing and a little less confusing.

"I don't know what I was thinking, accepting that cup of tea," John said, grabbing his own cup and heading over to the sofa.

"Well, I've poisoned you several times now over the course of our acquaintance," Sherlock murmured, his focus still on the screen in front of him.

"Sorry, what?"

Sherlock's phone beeped from beside the computer. He cast his eyes over it and noted it was a message from their favourite D.I.

"Lestrade's on his way over."

John's phone sounded its own chirrup. He picked it up and sighed heavily.

"Mary and Rosie are on their way, too."

"Oh, good."

Sherlock hadn't seen Rosie since his return to London. He was quite looking forward to catching up. He had a lot to tell her.

"Look," John said, rising from the sofa. Sherlock immediately detected a note of awkwardness in the doctor's voice and he steeled himself for an unpleasant conversation. "Don't mention this to Mary."

"I thought it was understood," Sherlock said, smiling pleasantly. "But she's bound to notice your change in attire."

"I'm not talking about the poisoned tea. I mean… what I just said."

Sherlock blinked a couple of times in confusion.

"But you hardly said anything."

"This… I mean… not being able to do this… juggling…"

"Juggling?"

"Cases and… nappies."

"Cases and nappies?"

"Look, Sherlock. Just don't ever… do something different, okay? Without this… I don't know. I think I'll just go mad."

Sherlock looked at his friend blankly. Do something different? Like what? Use his talents to cruise the nightclubs and pick up women by assuming a different identity?

"I need this," John said with conviction and pointing to the floor. "Just don't stop doing what you're doing. If I can escape here, even for a few minutes every other day, it'll be worth ingesting poison now and again. I need the cases. I need you here, in Baker Street. It's the one thing I can be sure of, because everything else is..." He shook his head again.

Sherlock's skin prickled. Just what was John saying here?

The front door slammed shut, and rapid footfalls sounded up the stairwell.

"Just don't…" John reiterated.

"I won't say a word," Sherlock hastily replied. Not that he even knew what words to say.

Mary and Rosie appeared on the landing and Sherlock found it easy to plant a smile on his face at the sight of his God-daughter, despite the confusing conversation he'd had with her father only moments before.

* * *

The end of the week was almost upon him and Sherlock had solved all cases rated above a five. It was definitely time to return to Edinburgh. Most of the cases, he realised in hindsight, could've been solved from the comfort of his new armchair by the fire in the home he shared with Rose in Morningside. But just yesterday, he and John spent a rainy afternoon and an unscheduled overnight stay trapped in the confines of Drearcliff House.

The house served as headquarters to the local chapter of a group called Comrades of the Zoo. The eleven members were gathering for an initiation ceremony which had apparently gone wrong. But as Sherlock and John had uncovered, Bruce Alistair had been murdered at the hands of not just one member of the group, but as the result of a conspiracy among all ten. And it involved an orangutan. A bit messy, and the RSPCA was called in. It was probably fortunate that the Consulting Detective had been in London at the time. He couldn't have solved that one via Skype.

"That was just like an Agatha Christie novel," John said, puffing out his chest as they strode out of the Baker Street Underground. "Or Inspector Dupin," he added, laughing lightly. Sherlock had no idea what John was talking about. "Mary would've loved that one. At least it wasn't poison this time. The roast pumpkin was amazing."

Sherlock wasn't really listening as John continued to gush about the case as they entered number 221. Now that yet another thrilling case was solved, Sherlock was left to think about ordinary things, like what John Watson had been begging him to do the other day.  _Just don't ever… do something different, okay?_  … _I need you here, in Baker Street_. It had slowly dawned on Sherlock that John Watson wouldn't take the news of the Consulting Detective's relationship status and impending parenthood very well. Especially not when Sherlock could potentially be the kind of man who  _could_  juggle cases and nappies. Would that make John feel inferior? Surely he already did around Sherlock.

But this would be different, Sherlock concluded. John had become a parent first. He was supposed to master this stuff, being a doctor and a soldier, a good husband and a good friend. The bravest and wisest man Sherlock had ever known. Perhaps the detective-genius needed to give his friend time to adjust and overcome the struggles he had with juggling nappies and cases before Sherlock showed off his superiority.

The hiccuping cries of young Miss Rosie Watson told them who was waiting upstairs. Sherlock didn't fail to hear John mutter under his breath.

"An all nighter?" Mary asked, as the duo crossed the threshold.

"We were… a bit tied up," Sherlock began, one corner of his mouth curving into a smile.

"Literally," John quipped. "If it wasn't for…"

He trailed off. Clearly Mary's thinning lips and narrowing eyes were not an encouraging sign. Sherlock could tell by the twisting of Rosie's body toward the newcomers that the infant was desperate for someone to pay her some attention.

"Here," Mary said. "Go to Daddy."

"I need the bathroom first," John said, brushing past.

Sherlock saw Mary tense, but Rosie was already looking in her Godfather's direction. He gladly reached for her.

"Here," he said, taking Miss Watson from her mother. Mary gave up her daughter without a word to Sherlock and took off through the kitchen after her husband.

"You're really going to follow me?" Sherlock heard John say.

"One phone call," Mary said in admonishment. "That's all I needed."

As the quarrelling parents sought privacy in Sherlock's bathroom, Sherlock turned to Rosie and asked, "And what have you been up to? I hope you haven't found my stash of nicotine." He carried her to the living room window. He knew what she wanted—fresh air. "You're much too young for cigarettes. Pipe smoking perhaps…"

He drew open the curtain, allowing Rosie to see the brightly lit view outside.

"Yes, that's where you want to be," he said sympathetically. "It's the type of weather for it, isn't it?"

The unusually warm weather made the flat a tad stuffy inside, reminding Sherlock that he was still wearing his Belstaff.

"Excuse me for one moment while I rid myself of this coat," he said to Rosie, carrying her back across the living room.

He propped her up in John's armchair, with the Union Jack cushion beside her for security. He shed his coat, keeping a watchful eye on the infant, before swiftly crossing to hang it on the hook behind the door. At the same time, John and Mary had come striding from the bathroom.

"Where's…" John began. "Jesus, Sherlock! You can't put a baby in an armchair!"

John scooped up his daughter, who immediately protested.

"I had my eye on her the entire time."

"It only takes a second."

"I need to put my feet up," Mary said, with a sigh, ignoring the exchange and making a beeline for the sofa."

"A second for what?" Sherlock asked.

"For her to tumble out," John replied, with a disapproving shake of his head.

"I was just here. And I have the reflexes of a—"

"One second. That's all it takes."

"Says the man with the lightning reflexes," Sherlock added with a half-smile. It was a subtle yet sarcastic dig at John's immobility during the poisoned tea incident.

John narrowed his eyes at his daughter's Godfather.

"Here," John said, drawing out a round-shaped object from underneath the coffee table. He placed it in the middle of the living room rug, and put Rosie into it. It was sort of a moulded plastic seat. Clearly Mary had brought it with her. Sherlock hadn't seen it before. "Now this is more appropriate," John added with a satisfied air.

Sherlock looked down at his God-daughter and tutted.

"Well, that can't be much fun," he said, eyeing Rosie and the contraption critically. She didn't seem to find it at all fun either and she immediately began to flail her arms about.

John held out a rattle, which she grabbed and shook. She looked up at Sherlock, who immediately read something like alarm in her expression.

John joined his wife on the sofa, while Sherlock sat down crossed-legged on the rug, in front of Rosie.

"It's not fair, is it? Viewing the world all the way from down here."

"Are you 'right?" John said, a note of derision in his tone.

"This isn't a good way to view the world, John. All she can see is everybody's feet."

"Speaking of feet," Mary said, stretching out a leg on John's lap. "John," she prompted.

"How would you like it if you—" Sherlock said to John, them quickly cut himself off, but not without a tiny smile stealing onto his lips first.

John looked unimpressed, while Mary chuckled lightly.

"How would I like it if I had to view the world a few inches shorter than you do?" the doctor asked Sherlock. "Yes, very funny."

Sherlock was jolted by Rosie's rattle ending up in his lap.

"Ah, good throw," he remarked to the infant.

"Don't fall for it," John said. "She likes this game."

"Well, I like games," Sherlock said to Rosie, handing back her rattle and smiling. "Mind games in particular. Did I ever tell you the one about James Moriarty and a pair of trainers owned by Carl Powers?"

"I was there, remember," John said, leaning his head back on the sofa and closing his eyes. "I lived it."

"I'm talking to your daughter."

John emitted a sleepy chuckle. "If you tell her a sanitised version," he began, "one appropriate for children—there won't be anything left to tell."

"She likes hearing my methods of deduction. There's no need to sanitise them. They don't contain the more sensational aspects you always highlight in your blog."

There was no further response from John, and curiously, nothing at all from Mary. Sherlock scanned both parents. Asleep, naturally. And judging by their positioning on the sofa—comforting hands resting on each other's legs—they had come to some kind of amicable agreement in the bathroom. Sherlock was relieved. Perhaps John was starting to find a way to cope. Or Mary was finding one for him.

Rosie demanded Sherlock's attention once more by throwing her rattle towards him. It hit his knee and bounced to the rug.

"It's a rattle," he explained, holding it up at Rosie's eye level. "The purpose of which is to aid in your cognitive development. You shake the rattle…" He demonstrated for Rosie's benefit. "…and you hear a sound. Cause and effect. Now hold on to it while I explain the rudiments of the case."

This he did, while Rosie intermittently cheered along his explanations with the shake of her rattle.

"So, Moriarty," Sherlock said in conclusion. "What do you think his posthumous plans are?" His own mind drifted to the last meeting he had with the Consulting Criminal on the rooftop of Bart's.

_Your only three friends in the world will die…_

Is it possible Moriarty left instructions to somehow torment Sherlock and those he cared about at some predetermined point in the future? And would that now include Rose and his… unborn child? And they were over four hundred miles away from his protection.

"How can I keep them safe," he said to Rosie in a low voice, "yet maintain enough distance on a regular basis as to not draw too much attention to me travelling North every so often?"

Rosie gurgled a happy response.

"No," Sherlock said, waving a flippant hand. "The private rehabilitation centre cover may not hold up under close scrutiny, although…"

He lapsed into silence once more. Why would Moriarty repeat the same threat as he had over three years ago? How utterly dull and not very clever of the psychopathic genius.

 _That's your weakness_ , came Moriarty's voice from the grave once more.  _You always want everything to be clever._

Rosie flapped her arms at Sherlock, rousing him from his thoughts.

"My apologies," he said, fixing his God-daughter with a quick smile. "It's not fun watching me think in silence, is it?" He drew in a calming breath. "Much better when I'm on my feet. Come on."

He stood, then eased out of his suit jacket, dropping it onto the back of his armchair.

"I need to get comfortable."

Sherlock was about to head to his bedroom to retrieve a dressing gown when he decided he'd better take Rosie with him. He stooped and gently lifted her from the confines of her low chair. They returned not a moment later with Sherlock noticing that Rosie was predictably happier at being off the ground and hanging out with her Godfather.

He grabbed her baby seat and looked around for a suitable spot to place it that would give her a better view of the detective-genius at work.

"Ah," he said, finally deciding on the armchair that best suited an attentive Watson. He placed the baby seat onto John's chair, and then put Rosie into her seat. Sherlock drew on his dressing gown then grabbed Rosie's rattle from the rug. "You'll be needing this," he said, handing it back to her. "Now, where were we? Oh, yes…"

Rosie's happy demeanour prompted him to think they could all be one big happy family here, in London. He and Rose and their… baby, being visited rather frequently by the Watson family.

"No, no, no," he said to Rosie. "You're not considering Rose's request to remain out of prying eyes. Remember, that's important to her. Think logically. I know it would be nice if we were together, like one big…"

Rosie was flailing her arms impatiently again. Sherlock stooped to pick up the rattle she'd once more flung away.

"Do you see how you're getting upset once the rattle is out of your hand? Now, don't let go. Maintain a firm grip."

Rosie grasped the handle of the rattle once more and brought the edge to her mouth.

"As I was saying," Sherlock said, beginning to pace in front of the fireplace. "It's not immediately possible to bring Rose into the spotlight here in London. Her recent fallout with her family means her feelings are too raw. She's dwelling on her past occupation again. And yes, the comfort and sympathy of many who know her—" Sherlock gestured toward Rosie's sleeping parents, "may be one benefit, but…"

Once more, Rosie coughed in protest at having lost her rattle, causing Sherlock to momentarily lose his train of thought. He bowed his head and sighed.

"As ever, Watson," he said, before turning to her. "You see but do not observe. " He looked sternly down at Rosie. "To you, the world remains an impenetrable mystery, whereas to me, it is an open book. Hard logic versus romantic whimsy. That is your choice. You fail to connect actions to their consequences. Now, for the last time…" Sherlock plucked Rosie's rattle from the edge of the armchair where it had fallen and held it out to her. "If you want to keep the rattle, do not throw the rattle. Hm?"

Sherlock was made acutely aware of Rosie's displeasure when the full force of her toy smacked him in the face. He blinked and rethought his argument.

Straightening up, he said, "Why don't I show you what I mean."

He turned from Rosie, slipped out of his dressing gown, and once more donned his jacket.

"Get your things together," he told her, before striding to the door and retrieving his Belstaff. "You're coming with me to Edinburgh." A smile grew from the edges of his mouth as the full extent of his idea formed in his mind. His stomach fluttered. Rose was waiting for him in her home.  _Their_  home. She finally admitted to loving him. His heart felt full and his eyes glistened in anticipation of their next reunion.

Sherlock slipped on his coat and bent down to Rosie. "You can meet Rose," he said in a conspiratorial whisper, lifting Rosie from her seat. "She'll be only too happy to meet you." Casting his mind back to Rose holding baby Jack outside the house in Niddrie and longing to take him with her, he added, "She likes people of your… stature." Sherlock looked about for Rosie's baby bag. "Don't you have a suitcase of some description, with all your little knick-knacky things in it?"

Sherlock couldn't immediately see it within the confines of the living room.

"Where is it?" he muttered, looking this way and that. "What have you done with it?"

Perhaps Mary had left it downstairs in Mrs Hudson's spare bedroom, where Rosie's travel cot was often set up.

"Sherlock… what are you doing?" John asked, wiping an eye with the heel of his hand. "Mary." John tapped his wife's leg. "Sherlock's trying to steal our baby."

"Well, you two are completely useless to me," Sherlock said, deflating a little at having been discovered before he could flee the scene of the crime with his confederate.

"You know, you can't take Rosie out on a case," Mary said, her voice groggy from sleep.

"What case?" Sherlock replied, smiling sheepishly. "I actually have a secret, pregnant girlfriend up North. I thought Rosie might like to meet her before the baby arrives."

"Huh," said John humourlessly. He reached for his daughter and gave her a beaming smile. "Is Uncle Sherlock being funny?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. It was worth a half-hearted try, even though it was his every intention to mislead his friends with an outlandish-sounding statement. There was no way at this point in time he would let John know he was actually telling the truth. As Rosie gurgled happily at her smiling, doting parents, Sherlock was reminded that this would be his life some day. But he could have it all. With one last smile to himself, he took that moment to leave the Watson family alone in peace. He had somewhere else he'd rather be.

.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The cases "Blessington the Poisoner" and "Drearcliff House" were mentioned by Sherlock in the hospital scene when he was telling the children about his cases and methods of deduction in TLD. While the name 'Blessington' appears in ACD canon (not a poisoner, though!), 'Drearcliff House' does not. I found out it comes from a Sherlock Holmes movie called, The House of Fear, starring Basil Rathbone. I watched it the other night—you can find it on YouTube. Quite funny! Although, there are no zoos or orangutans in it. I suspect Moftiss put that into the episode as a nod to an Edgar Ellan Poe Inspector Dupin case that involves an orangutan.
> 
> The Adventure at Drearcliff House may be a genfic I write out in full one day when I have nothing else to do (!)
> 
> We're slowly moving through the episode because of all the time jumps the writers include that I'm attempting to fill in (eg. Rosie's birth to Christening to sitting up and throwing rattles would realistically occur over a few months, but it takes up less than 2 minutes of screen time!). I hope to move through the case a bit quicker though, because those scenes don't involve Rose.


	83. You Can't Go On Spinning Plates

 

With a weary sigh, Rose sank down onto a dining chair and slid her laptop towards her. Although, why bother? She wasn't in the right frame of mind to study now.

_Dammit, Ade!_

Rose left her seat and crossed the kitchen to flick the switch on the kettle once more. Her heart still beat furiously in her chest. Should she admonish Indira for giving Ade her address? He was harmless enough, though. Perhaps his visit was a good thing. Adrian could report back to her narrow-minded relatives on how  _Rosemarie_  was faring now. But Rose wasn't the kind of person to harbour resentment in such a way that would have her flaunt her good fortune. The thought of the estrangement between her and her father and the last few days of her mother's life just filled Rose with a bone-deep sorrow and regret for all the things that should've been said.

"Fucking hell. Would ye look at this place?" Adrian had said, craning his neck to see beyond Rose and into the foyer.

Once Rose had got over her initial shock at finding Ade on her doorstep, she thought the least she could do was offer him a cup of tea. He had come when she needed help to move out of Craigleith Hill Gardens. He had a kind heart, really. The only thing going against him was the simplicity with which he viewed the world and everybody in it.

But sitting down at a table and having a quiet cup of tea was not Adrian's usual style. Within seconds of entering the kitchen, he had examined the cabinetry and the bay window, tapping everything and making noises of approval, before saying, "Show us the rest of the house," and taking himself through the adjoining door into the living room. Rose abandoned her tea making and followed him in.

Ade methodically examined the fireplace and its mantel shelf, remarking with reverence that it was the original timber and it was still in good condition. And then he was off once more, out into the foyer, then taking the stairs two at a time. Rose wearily followed him.

Ade commented on the solidity of the staircase, the polish on the floorboards and again the ornate cornices. He was already across the landing when Rose was only halfway up the stairs.

"Whoa, that's solid, yeah?"

Rose rolled her eyes. Clearly Adrian was already in the bathroom and taking in the bathtub. And then a delicate flush crossed Rose's cheeks. Had she left her dirty clothes on the floor of the bathroom? She hadn't got round to buying a laundry hamper yet.

As she crossed the landing, Ade emerged from the bathroom opposite. With a curious saunter, he looked past Rose, glancing into her bedroom.

"So, where's this bloke of yours?" he asked, his mood slightly subdued. Rose concluded he'd seen the aftershave and second toothbrush on the shelf above the sink in the bathroom. "Indira said he was away a lot."

Rose explained in vague terms that Sherlock— _Scott—_ was away on diplomatic duty.

"He's a diplomat?" Ade asked, wrinkling his nose a little.

"He's part of a security detail."

While Sherlock had come up with quite an elaborate cover story for himself—part of a security team for the British Embassy in South Korea—he warned Rose against revealing too much at any one time.

" _Only lies have detail, Rose_ ," Sherlock had said. And not for the first time, she recalled.

Rose let Ade know that she really had to be getting on with studying, and perhaps they could have a cuppa another time. And then she paused. She had a question of her own.

Rose drew in a steadying breath and asked, "How's my dad?"

"He's... y'know," Ade replied, with a vague shrug.

That seemed to be topic of conversation that put an end to Adrian's visit. He gave her a quick hug goodbye, offered to fix anything that needed fixing while ' _your Scott'_  was abroad, and then he was on his way.

Rose leant against the kitchen counter and folded her arms in front of her. The last she'd heard from Sherlock was him telling her he had an interesting case that involved a group of zoo enthusiasts, or something. He hadn't phoned last night and Rose wondered if she was supposed to worry if she didn't hear from him for over twenty-four hours.

While dunking her tea bag into her mug, Rose was sure she heard the low rumble of a motorbike. It sounded closer than the general traffic that passed through her quiet terrace. To the side of the house was a laneway, down which heavy traffic did not and could not travel. Her heart leapt into her throat, and she strode out of the kitchen and into the foyer. Throwing open the front door, she looked out into the darkened driveway. Light rain glistened against the street light and Rose shivered from the chill in the air. Had she imagined hearing Sherlock's bike?

The rear door to the boot room off the kitchen slammed shut, startling her.

"Rose?"

Rose heaved a sigh of relief, and excitement coursed through her. She closed and bolted the front door and made for the kitchen. Within seconds, Sherlock Holmes had brushed past her.

"Now, Rose. This is what I'm thinking."

He strode across the foyer to a small room to one side, which was supposed to be the study but was void of furniture.

"Ah, yes…"

"Sherlock?"

"Through here," he said, gesturing to the end wall. "We'll knock this one through, and—"

"Sherlock."

"—into the garage. We'll have to remove those shrubby things on the other side. But the roof!" Sherlock zipped by Rose again, and swiftly mounted the stairs. "Hopefully, the bedroom window is high enough!"

Sherlock disappeared, leaving Rose to exhale deeply. Once more she was left on the ground floor by a man and his enthusiasm for something to investigate. For the second time that evening, Rose climbed the stairs, feeling every bone in her body protesting.

"Yes! Perfect!" Sherlock gleefully exclaimed as he exited the bedroom. He drew up in front of Rose on the landing and reached for her. "No more getting rained on when you're parking the car! We're going to build a garage!"

"I don't think we'd be allowed to," Rose said, folding her arms in front of her.

"Oh, hello, Rose." He gave her a quick peck on her cheek, then sniffed. "You've had a visitor. Clearly not just anybody. He's given you a hug, so someone familiar, then. And going by the light male cologne still present on your cheek, not a prolonged embrace either. A base note quite often found in a young man's cologne. I've written a blog post on—"

"A young man?" Rose asked, arching a brow.

"Obvious. Size and style of the boots that left an impression in the mud outside that he's carelessly tracked inside. Busybody, by the looks of it. He's been everywhere. But not in the bedroom." Sherlock furrowed his brow and scanned the floor area around them. "He stopped here."

"Perhaps he took off his boots before we dove underneath the sheets together."

"Mm, no," Sherlock said matter-of-factly. "You don't smell like that sexy stuff, nor have you just had a shower."

"Sexy stuff?"

"So: male, caucasian," Sherlock said, turning from Rose and heading back towards the stairs."Twenty to twenty-five. Drives a white pickup truck."

"Sherlock," Rose said, as she followed him downstairs. "You know you can just ask me. You don't have to deduce everything."

"Where's the fun in that?" he replied, glancing back at Rose, his eyes dancing as he gave her a half smile. He stopped halfway down the stairs and turned to face her. Reaching for her, with his voice dropping a couple of notches, he said slowly, "Hello, Rose."

* * *

The kitchen-dining area had now been christened thanks to the purchase of a dining table while Sherlock had been absent. On the first few nights he had been back in London, he had skyped Rose in the evening. He'd remarked about the dining table after observing the position from which Rose was sitting while they were chatting. Rose confirmed that yes, Lorraine, his— _their_ —interior decorator, had taken charge when Rose had baulked at the idea of furnishing the rest of the house.

"Yes, I told her you'd be like that," Sherlock said. "So I instructed her to go ahead and deliver something."

As they lay on the sofa in the living room, with the TV volume on low, Rose mentioned how empty the house was when he was absent and asked Sherlock how he felt about taking on a couple of lodgers. The whole second floor was available. The one room that included an ensuite bathroom could serve as the bedroom, while the other could be a sitting room. Ideally, it would suit a couple.

"Definitely not. We can't have strangers wandering about. Within these walls, I'm Sherlock Holmes again. What would be the point of visiting you if I still have to remain undercover in private?"

"But—"

"No. I've got something else in mind, which will take care of my concerns for your safety when I'm away. It'll also deal with your apparent feeling of loneliness."

"I'm not lonely. The house just feels too big for one person."

Sherlock ran a comforting hand along Rose's arm.

"I don't know what Moriarty's plans are," he said. "And I can't be sure my movements to and from Edinburgh haven't been closely monitored."

Sherlock had concocted a plan while he travelled by train from London to Newcastle that afternoon—a plan to keep Rose safe whenever he was away. He had a phone call to make, but he was sure the relevant parties would agree.

He told Rose of a married couple he had met while breaking up Moriarty's network in Europe. They were former agents for the DGSE, France's external intelligence agency. Since they had retired, they were now living in Blackpool to be closer to their daughter and grandson. They had reconnected with Sherlock when he made his own return to England.

"They can live here," he said in conclusion. "The Wilsons are in need of a steady income after receiving only a paltry pension from their employer. They're professionals, Rose, with a particular skillset. And they're perfectly trustworthy and will be able to maintain my cover story for us." Before Rose could offer any comments, Sherlock added, "They can help you with the baby in my absence. They're grandparents, after all. And Bob loves gardening, so he can sort out that mess for you."

By Rose's furrowed brow, Sherlock could tell she was thinking about it. At least she hadn't dismissed his idea outright. Why wouldn't she agree? If she was willing to allow complete strangers to live here, then why wouldn't she accept a married couple who could double as spies or anti-terrorist agents if need be?

Plus they were fluent in all of the Romance languages. Surely that had to count for something. They knew him as Sherlock Holmes, and would be completely sympathetic for his need to assume a secret identity when living in Edinburgh. He could be comfortable in his own house and they would give Sherlock and Rose the privacy they needed while also providing security for Rose.

"They sound perfect," Rose remarked after a fashion. Her words took Sherlock by surprise.

"Good," he said. "I'll give them a call."

* * *

Sherlock travelled between Edinburgh and London two more times over the course of a fortnight. He tended to join Rose in time for the weekends and leave again for London in the early hours of a Monday morning. This pattern seemed to suit them both. Rose was mostly free on the weekends, apart from having to study, and she still maintained a busy schedule during the week. Sherlock didn't hold back on his disapproval for her late nights counselling two nights per week. But Rose insisted it was important for her career prospects. He didn't mind her continuing to offer tutoring sessions over one evening for the two Psychology undergraduates, though.

He'd contacted Bob and Justine Wilson in Blackpool, who were only too pleased at such a generous offer: a good wage, lovely accommodation and a low level risk. And they were free to commute back to Blackpool whenever Sherlock was in Edinburgh. But they wouldn't be available for another week, they'd informed him, after their grandson had his first birthday. They didn't want to miss out on that special occasion.

So Sherlock returned to London for one last time leaving Rose on her own. He still longed for her to join him in London some day. Maybe after the baby was born. She may see things differently.

On a particularly slow Tuesday afternoon, Sherlock found himself in John's old room upstairs. It still contained the bed, which Mrs Hudson kept protected under a plastic sheet, and a couple of old boxes that stored belongings John had forgotten about. Sherlock idly rummaged through them, while glancing about and imagining the best location for a cot. Perhaps he should fit it out as a nursery anyway. He could show Rose a picture and she might change her mind.

Sherlock brought one of the boxes downstairs just as the Watson family arrived, both parents looking the worse for wear.

"Ah, good," Sherlock said. "You can sort through this stuff of yours."

John scoffed and continued on into the living room, unbuckling Rosie from the baby carrier as he did so.

"Ooh," commented Mary. "What's in there? Love letters to John's girlfriends?"

While John tutted, Sherlock replied, "Don't be ridiculous, Mary. All of John's love letters to his girlfriends were in the form of emails. One or two cringeworthy poems as well, if I recall correctly."

He set the box onto the table, took his God-daughter from her father, then disappeared back upstairs with her, leaving Mary to rummage through the box he'd set on the living room table.

"Tell me what you think about this," Sherlock said to Rosie in a low voice as they entered the tiny bedroom. "Suitable for a baby's room? I value your opinion. You're the expert on these things after all."

Instead of taking in the room, Rosie grasped the edge of Sherlock's dressing gown, feeling the texture between her fingers. Sherlock looked about them, getting a feel for the ambient temperature of the room. Was it too stuffy in here? Dusty? Large enough for extra furniture? He thought he might get a better idea if the room was empty. A blank canvas.

Sherlock opened the wardrobe door, looking for any other items he could return to John. Leaning up in the corner, was John's old walking stick. The sight of it warmed Sherlock's heart. Sentiment, he thought with a tiny smile, casting his mind back to his and John's first case together.

"Now this," he said, reaching for the walking stick and holding it up to show Rosie, "will mean something to your dad."

Rosie batted the walking stick a couple of times, before Sherlock turned and left the room with Rosie in one arm, and the walking stick firmly in his grasp.

Both Mary and John were bent over John's box of possessions when Sherlock and Rosie crossed the threshold into the living room. When John turned, Sherlock lightly threw the walking stick toward him, which John easily caught.

"Bloody hell," John said, examining the stick in his hands.

"What's that?" Mary asked.

"I told you. Remember? It's what I used when I came back to London. I had a—"

"Psychosomatic limp," Sherlock said, simultaneously. Then he added, "So… you can either get rid of it, or keep it as a gentle reminder never to question my deductions again."

"Huh," John said. "As if I need a gentle reminder. Isn't that something you hammer into me every time we're on a case?"

"Aw," Mary added, reaching out and rubbing Sherlock's arm affectionately. She turned to John and said, "You should definitely keep it. It's a symbol of your friendship. Wasn't that the first time you realised you had to have faith in Sherlock's deductions and he told Mrs H you'd take the room? It's your version of a friendship ring."

John scoffed lightly, while Sherlock gave a tiny cough.

"I think… Rosie needs her nappy changed," the detective-genius deduced. He grabbed the infant's nappy bag from the floor beside the door and made a beeline for the bathroom.

Behind him, he heard Mary laugh, and John say, "I think you've embarrassed him. I've never seen him so keen to change Rosie's nappy before."

"I can still hear you!" Sherlock called back.

* * *

Rose realised the reason for Sherlock's text once she pulled up outside their house. He'd instructed her to park in the street. It looked like he was getting automatic gates installed today.

Sherlock and Bob Wilson had been busy, starting the day early, scouting for suitable locations around the outside of the house to install hidden security cameras and motion sensors. Rose was thankful Sherlock had arrived in Edinburgh well before the weekend, but his determination to get everything sorted before he left for London again was getting on her nerves. She normally had Friday mornings off, and previously, she had to clean Olivia's house. And that was another sore point—Sherlock paying Olivia what he deemed was the rent Rose owed, rather than have her clean there again.

But this Friday morning, Sherlock had shot out of bed with a multitude of things to do, rather than stay snuggling with Rose. She wasn't impressed.

So Rose had started the day slowly, declining an invitation with Justine to browse the shops along Morningside Road. Instead, she drew herself a bath, had a long soak, dressed for uni, and ate toast while reading a text book to the sound of hammering and drilling outside. She attended her lecture, then had lunch with Lisa, the first year psychology student she was tutoring. They occasionally caught up during a uni day.

When Rose returned from lunch, parking the car in the street, she found Sherlock and Bob around the back of the house, testing the equipment they had installed.

"…wait til after dark," Sherlock had just finished saying. "Oh, hello, Rose."

"Afternoon, Ms Sulford," Bob said with a nod of his head. His distinctly Northern accent continued to astound Rose. She'd said to Sherlock earlier, that she thought Bob and Justine were French.

"They are," he replied.

"Then why do they sound like they come from the North?" Rose asked.

"Awesome, isn't it?"

The Wilsons were a quiet and devoted couple. Rose guessed they had to be, with the secrets they kept. Bob jogged each morning, while Justine did yoga before the sun even rose. In the evenings, they went for a walk around Morningside and had invited Rose along. She appreciated the gesture, having missed her regular walks with Tonya Small and her puppies around Bayswater.

Rose went inside to find Justine lifting a tray of scones out of the oven.

"Oh. Justine. This won't do," Rose said, with a tiny smile and making a point of patting her rounded belly.

"Don't mind me, love," Justine replied. "It's the novelty of having other people to bake for." And then she lowered her voice and whispered conspiratorially in an exquisite French accent, "Robert, is getting a bit round, no? Per'aps 'e needs to jog more."

Rose chuckled and crossed the kitchen to put the kettle on. Sherlock and Bob joined them shortly afterwards. The Consulting Detective's cheeks were flushed from working outside, but his eyes were bright and enthusiastic. Bob was telling Sherlock about spy cameras and tracking devices fitted into teddy bears. Rose didn't like to think what had prompted that topic of conversation.

Sherlock began updating her on the locations of all of the cameras and she only realised a few minutes later that Bob and Justine had discreetly taken their tea and scones upstairs, leaving her and Sherlock alone. They appeared to be able to do that without exchanging a word or giving an obvious signal.

"We'll test the motion sensors tonight," Sherlock said, leaning back in his chair and popping the last morsel of scone topped with jam and clotted cream into his mouth. When Rose didn't reply, except to give him a wan smile before taking another sip of her tea, he swallowed and added, "How was your lunch then? With Lisa the psychology student?"

Rose was impressed Sherlock had remembered her name. Now if only he knew which of Rose's students she was: the mature-aged single mum, or the eighteen-year-old, fresh out of highschool.

"Lunch was lovely. Lisa's fine. She's going back to Liverpool this weekend. This will be her first unsupervised visit with her son. She's understandably nervous. He grows so fast, she said."

It didn't surprise Rose that Sherlock's attention drifted back towards his phone.

"Sherlock."

"Mm?"

"We were talking about holidays," Rose began, fidgeting with the handle on her tea cup. "And our plans for the trimester break, not that it's a very long one."

"That's good," Sherlock commented distractedly.

"And I was thinking… how about you and I take that weekend to go to France? We never did get to go to Paris."

"Oh. Why's that?" he said, as he busily tapped away on his phone.

"Why what? Why go to Paris now, or why didn't we go to Paris then?"

Sherlock said nothing and continued typing. Rose assumed his last tap to his screen was to press the Send button on whatever message he had been composing. Sherlock Holmes, she thought. Saving the world and taking tea and scones simultaneously. No wonder he wasn't listening to her properly.

"Sorry, what?" he asked, placing his phone down onto the table. "I wasn't really listening to you."

"I know," Rose said. "I'm talking about you and I going to Paris before the baby arrives."

A crease appeared in Sherlock's brow.

"Why?" he asked, lifting his cup to his lips and taking a sip.

"Don't you remember us discussing going on a holiday together?" A mild panic rose in her throat. It was during a rather romantic bathtime interlude last year, the calm before the storm she realised now, where she and Sherlock had been discussing going away together. Did he delete all memories of such happy times? "You asked me where I'd like to—"

"Sounds vaguely familiar."

"Yes, well…" Rose began, still feeling slightly disconcerted. "We were supposed to go before I started uni last year."

"So why didn't we?"

"Because you got shot."

Sherlock huffed a small laugh and said, "Yes. That was quite inconsiderate of me."

"So… how about it?"

"Sounds fine, Rose."

Sherlock appeared to take in Rose's furrowed brow, for he didn't break eye contact. He reached for her hand, his expression softening.

"I  _will_ take you to Paris this time. I promise."

"No getting shot at?"

"I'll try to avoid it."

"The weekend beginning the 8th of May. That's a Friday."

The trill of Sherlock's phone drew his attention once more.

"Sounds good," he said, as he picked up the phone.

Rose stood and retrieved both her and Sherlock's cups. Heading over to the sink, she asked, somewhat facetiously, "Shall I send you a calendar invitation so you don't forget?"

"Mm."

Rose sighed. He wasn't listening to her again. She turned on the tap and began rinsing the cups.

"Do you even use a calendar?" she shot back.

Sherlock slowly rose from his chair, his eyes fixed firmly on his phone before he rapidly began to type. He made his way over to Rose. She had turned around and leant her back against the sink, patiently waiting for him to grace her with his presence again.

"Sorry, what?" he asked, pulling up in front of her and giving her a sheepish smile. Thankfully, he placed the phone on the countertop beside her.

Rose gently tugged on Sherlock's waistband, drawing him closer to gain his full attention.

"Shall I send you a calendar invitation to remind you to take me to Paris on the 8th of May?"

"No need. I'll remember," he said, his eyes glistening.

"You sure?"

Sherlock banded his arms around Rose and replied, "I remember what's important to me."

His phone reminded him otherwise, but he kept a loose arm around Rose as he reached for it.

"Lestrade's determined to get my attention," he murmured.

Rose tried to exhale discreetly.

"What's 'belter' mean?" Sherlock asked her, his eyes still on the phone as he swiped the screen. "I assume he doesn't mean a serial killer who strangles his victims using leather belts." His gaze returned to Rose and he added, with a smile, "The bruising around the neck is fairly distinctive and hardly mysterious."

The tension Rose had been feeling began to abate when she realised just who stood in front of her. This is what gave Sherlock the energy—a zest for life—that she loved about him. A challenging case. A hint of a puzzle. A smile grew on her face as she looked up at him.

"I think it means he's got a case you'll find challenging."

"Oh. Good."

Sherlock discarded his phone once more, and gave Rose a closed-mouth grin. He seemed to be waiting for something.

"Go, Sherlock."

"What?"

"Just go," she said, returning his smile. "Back to London." She smoothed the flat of her palm on his chest.

"But I just got here."

"And you'll be back soon enough. Just go. Solve the case. Have some fun while you can."

Sherlock took a second to consider Rose's suggestion.

"Just so you know," he said, bowing his head towards her and speaking in a low register, "I also have fun here."

"I know."

"And babies are fun, too."

Rose chuckled lightly and felt warmed by Sherlock's embrace. She couldn't help think she had been so wrong about him for so long.

"That's good to know," she whispered. Sherlock narrowed the gap between them, but before his lips could touch hers, panic rippled through Rose and she added, "Don't forget to come back."

Sherlock regarded her for a moment. But Rose couldn't help it. Tears welled in her eyes and a golf ball-sized lump grew in her throat.

"What?" Sherlock asked, his eyes widening as he drew back.

"It's nothing," Rose said. She forced a smile to her face and wiped at one eye. "I'm being stupid. It's just hormones."

Sherlock rumbled out a laugh, before pressing a kiss to her forehead. Rose's mind went into overdrive, as if she now had a million things to organise.

She said, "I've got my eighteen week scan on Wednesday, but—"

"I know."

"—don't worry if you miss it."

"I won't miss it."

Rose sniffed back tears once more.

"Are you sure you're okay?" Sherlock asked.

Rose nodded, but her eyes pooled once again. She felt like an idiot. She also felt all over the place. Bloody hormones. Her heart yearned for him. She missed him already and he hadn't even left yet. A sob escaped her, followed by a laugh. Why couldn't she get control of her emotions?

Sherlock chuckled and drew her to him. He placed one hand on the side of her belly and gave it a gentle rub.

"What are you doing to your mother?" he asked in a low voice.

A tiny laugh escaped Rose, and she rested her head on Sherlock's shoulder when he drew her in tightly. She couldn't wait to see Sherlock with their baby. She could already tell what kind of father he'd be. Her heart ached at the thought of it.

"I'll be back before you know it," he reassured her.

"No. Take your time. I can't study with all this hammering and drilling going on."

Sherlock continued hugging her in silence, gently rubbing her back.

Eventually, they drew apart, and he said, "I feel like another cup of tea. How about you?"

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the point at which you can now go and watch the Welsborough case scenes (after the scene where Rosie throws the rattle, starting with flirty John on the bus!). I'll wait here for you…


	84. Opt-in Ignorance

Rose moved to a quieter part of the Learning Resource Centre. Talking too loudly was frowned upon on level five. And the group of students who had been loudly brainstorming a topic earlier, had just been admonished by a third year student.

"Sorry?" she asked Sherlock, cupping her hand around her phone.

"Solved it," he said again. "But something else has come up. Are you okay?"

"Yes," she said with a laugh. "I'm only teary at night. It's stupid really."

"Nothing's stupid when it concerns you. Are you sure? Did Bob drop you off at uni this morning?"

"Yes. How did you know?"

But even before Sherlock answered, Rose concluded he'd already been kept up-to-date by her security detail.

"Your safety is my primary concern."

"Wait… did you ask Bob to drop me off? Because I thought he had errands to run, which was why I lent him the car."

"I have to go, Rose."

"Sher—"

But Rose knew he'd ended the call. He sounded quite agitated, talking at a mile a minute. She hoped he was just distracted by another case. But why the frantic phone call? Was there a threat directed at her, which had prompted him to ring and check up? Rose wondered how real his concerns for her safety were, especially after all the modifications he'd made to their house, not to mention the presence of her two new lodgers.

Rose decided to give up her private study in the LRC. It was almost 6pm anyway, and she had to meet Suzanne, her tutoring student, in Starbucks. She only had the one session today, since Lisa was spending the week in Liverpool with her son. With a sigh, Rose headed for the stairs. She knew Suzanne would have some drama unfolding in her life, which would necessitate at least the first ten minutes of their one hour session taken up with the minutiae of a nineteen-year-old's dating woes.

* * *

Sherlock waited to flag the next available cab. He was slightly annoyed at having to compete with the civil servants who were all leaving the City of Westminster at approximately the same time he needed a taxi.

His brother's reaction, or lack of, to the photo of Rosie Watson had been curious. She was fully functioning, and he wasn't very good with humans? How did that register for a man upon whose very existence the diplomatic ties of whole nations in Western Europe and even a few in South East Asia hinged?

It was a last minute decision, on Sherlock's part anyway, to show Mycroft Rosie's photo. In actual fact, he'd visited his brother looking for any hint or whisper of Jim Moriarty's plans. It wasn't Sherlock's intention to reveal his impending fatherhood status to the man who didn't know he was going to be an uncle in less than six months time. The younger Holmes wasn't ready for _that_ kind of intrusive interest. But Sherlock was curious as to what Mycroft thought about babies in general. Testing the waters, so to speak.

Over the next twenty-four hours, absolutely nothing happened. Sherlock was in two minds about returning to Edinburgh, but he had the feeling something was coming. And he wanted to be right in the middle of the cesspool that was London when it happened.

Naturally, a momentary panic about Rose's well-being had struck him in the taxi on the way from the Welsborough residence to Pall Mall yesterday. He hoped Rose didn't detect anything untoward in his tone.

John was buzzing around Sherlock a little more often than usual this week, but thankfully, the ex-army doctor was in constant contact with his wife via text. Sherlock assumed Mary was quite bored at home and John was attempting to keep her entertained from a distance. And from the sly smiles his former flatmate made in response to the texts he was reading, he thought Mary may have been reciprocating. But poor Mary. Sherlock made a mental note to try to include her a little more in their cases in future. He didn't want motherhood to keep slowing her down.

Sherlock phoned Rose again that evening to check up on her. To keep her from deducing this, he attempted to show an interest in the trivia of her day. But then he had to listen to some woman's drama with dating or keeping pets or something.

"Are you her counsellor or her tutor?" he asked Rose, feeling quite fed up on her behalf.

"I can't help caring, Sherlock. You know that."

"Yes, well, I'm not faring any better," he said resignedly. "My practice seems to have degenerated into an agency for recovering lost lead pencils. And John's no help. Sometimes I think I've been put on this earth to provide entertainment for the Watsons. They drift over to Baker Street whenever either one of them has a spare moment. I feel as if they're looking over my shoulder the entire time."

Sherlock frowned before he continued speaking. He wasn't quite sure why this bothered him these days. He used to like having an audience for his brilliance, but there seemed to be a quiet desperation seeping from both Watson adults whenever they were around him.

"John's constantly disappointed if I don't have cases rated above a five," Sherlock continued, "as if I have some control over the criminal element and their creativity in committing unobvious crimes. Mary's desperate to get out of the house, provided she can find last minute babysitting for Rosie, but I don't have anything for her. Why don't they both find something else that's dangerous to amuse themselves with."

"Oh, don't be too hard on them," Rose replied, puffing lightly. Sherlock could tell she was climbing the stairs now. "They probably like living vicariously through you."

"What does that mean?"

"I mean…" There was slight pause and a change in the ambient sound around Rose. "I've got you on speaker now, sorry."

"Why? What are you doing?"

"Getting changed."

"Why don't we skype? Sounds like a good time for a little video chat."

"Sherlock Holmes."

"Wait," Sherlock said, leaving the living room for his bedroom. "Don't take everything off yet. I'm just moving somewhere comfortable and then we can skype."

"Too late."

"Oh."

Sherlock stopped by the fridge, his shoulders drooping in disappointment.

"Anyway," he said with a sigh, before stalking back through the kitchen. "You were telling me what 'living vicariously through me' means."

"Yes. I mean that John—and Mary, I suppose—they like a bit of excitement in their lives and they can only get that by hanging around you. They admire and respect you and your work, I guess."

"So why aren't _you_ living vicariously through me?" he asked, a tiny bit offended.

Rose chuckled lightly. "Oh, Sherlock," she said warmly. "I love what you do, too. But I don't want to be involved in running around after dangerous criminals with you. I think I'm already at the limits of my capabilities."

Sherlock remembered that one time Rose helped him talk to a client shortly after his return from his two year stint abroad. She had ended up making the woman realise that she was focussing too much attention on a man she wasn't necessarily in a relationship with. Rose had provided counselling, rather than rudely telling the woman to leave because there was no actual case to solve.

"You do just fine," he said with great affection. He could hear Rose stifle a yawn and he was quite sure it wasn't because of the subject matter they were discussing. "Are you off to bed now?" he asked, feeling a tiny bit homesick.

Homesick? Wait. _London_ was his home, wasn't it? Not Edinburgh.

"I'm going to read for a bit," Rose replied. "Then go to sleep early. So, will I see you tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow? Tomorrow's only Wednesday."

There was silence from Rose's end, which was a little bit alarming.

"Okay, then," she said finally.

Sherlock's mind went into overdrive, casting his thoughts back to the last conversation with Rose just before he left Edinburgh for London.

"But of course I'll be back in the afternoon for your mid-pregnancy scan. I said I was going to, didn't I?"

Sherlock was relieved to hear Rose chuckle.

"You don't have to rush back if you're working on a case," she said. "We can always book in a private scan sometime later. This one's supposed to be for anomalies." Rose paused for just a split second, prompting Sherlock to deduce that she was worried about what they may find in the scan. "A private scan can be quite expensive, but…"

"I'll be there tomorrow," he said finally.

Sherlock's heart ached just a little upon saying goodnight to Rose. Something was coming, he was sure of it. And if Moriarty's focus was on Sherlock, wouldn't the detective need to stay away from the one he cared about most until the Consulting Criminal's plan was made clear?

Sherlock hadn't made a definitive decision about when to head back to Edinburgh by the next morning. Of course he would go, but he was procrastinating.

John appeared in Baker Street quite early; he had the day off. Sherlock tried to concentrate on a small handful of email cases, trying to remain oblivious to John's presence, but it felt as though the doctor was always hovering on the periphery of his vision. That is, until halfway through consulting with a dull insurance salesman Sherlock discovered that it wasn't John who was sat in his armchair by the fire, but a red helium-filled balloon.

They were both thankful, however, after a visit from Lestrade that revealed not one, but two more Thatcher busts destroyed by a person, or persons, unknown. Sherlock's skin prickled. He knew this was it. It had to be.

But after a disappointing stop-start pursuit led by Toby the bloodhound for the bulk of the morning, Sherlock took a moment to recalibrate his expectations. The Watsons left for home—it was Rosie's nap time—while Sherlock took Toby back to his owner, Craig the Hacker.

"He didn't lead you on a wild goose chase, did he?" Craig asked, gently stroking Toby's coat.

"No, he did exactly as he was supposed to," Sherlock replied. He handed Toby's leash to Craig. "He led us to…"

Sherlock trailed off. His mind had leapt ahead a couple of steps, pulling in all the information he had to hand.

_Wild goose chase… Exactly as he was supposed to._

What if this was Moriarty's plan, to lead Sherlock astray—to tease him, to beguile him—all in an effort to distract him and remove him from…

_Edinburgh!_

Sherlock's mouth ran dry. Craig didn't notice as he busied himself removing Toby's leash.

Rose!

Sherlock tried to recall where Rose would be at that moment to ascertain whether or not she would be safe. What day was it again?

"Craig. What day is it today?"

"Wednesday."

_Wednesday. Wednesday._

_Oh. Jesus Christ._

_Rose's scan! At 3pm! In Edinburgh!_

_She'll be so disappointed in me._

It was almost one, and there was no way Sherlock could make it to Edinburgh via his usual dual methods of travel.

"Craig. I'm supposed to be in Edinburgh. You have a car don't you?"

"Ah… yeah."

"Can you drive me to..." Sherlock tried to outline a plan in his mind. His travel times would not compute. He hoped Rose's appointment was delayed. These things always ran late, didn't they?

"To… Waterloo?" Craig finished for him.

"No," Sherlock said definitively. "Heathrow."

* * *

"Is baby playing silly buggers?" one of the nurses at the Sighthill Medical Centre remarked to Rose as she walked toward the entrance.

"Yes," Rose said, with a sigh, unable to hide the tension in her body.

"Happens all the time," the nurse reassured her.

Rose left the centre, under instructions to 'grab something sweet' and have a walk around outside for twenty minutes or so before they tried again.

The sonographer had told her that her baby was lying in such a way that made it difficult to see the chambers of the heart. Of course, this occurred quite regularly and it was just the matter of making the baby change positions. At the first indication that things weren't running as smoothly as Rose had hoped, she felt an unbearable pressure on her chest, and she was thankful at getting the opportunity to escape into the fresh air.

There were several times during the course of her visit where she could've burst into tears. It happened all too easily these days. Sherlock wasn't with her, even though he had assured her he would be. Rose alternated between feeling angry and upset with him for his absence, and trying to reason with herself that she had already told him not to push himself to get here if he was in the middle of a case. Since he hadn't made it back in time for her appointment, quite clearly he was still busy working in London.

Rose's appointment had lasted fifteen minutes before she was requested to go for a walk. Measurements had already been taken of her baby's head circumference and lengths of the larger bones, fingers and toes were counted, and the spine was checked over. Rose had seen their baby swallowing and bowing its head and she held her own breath to prevent herself from crying. _Their baby_.

She wanted Sherlock to be there so she could reach for his hand. This was a moment she wanted to share with him. She'd seen several couples in the waiting area: supportive partners looking quite bored or excited, but at least physically present. Holding hands, fetching paper cups of water, grinning stupidly. _Affectionately_ , Rose thought, correcting herself. And then her eyes would fill with tears before she angrily blinked them away.

 _She_ had a partner, she thought furiously. She _wasn't_ a single parent. Sherlock was very _very_ supportive.

And busy.

And _not here_.

After a hastily purchased cappuccino from the Costa Express bar in the service station a few hundred metres from the medical centre, of which she only drank half, and one bite of a Lion bar, Rose was feeling anxious to return to the medical centre. But it wasn't long before she was lying stretched out again, top pushed up, skirt pulled to her hips, with cold gel covering her abdomen and tissue tucked into her waistband.

"Much better," the sonographer said enthusiastically.

The woman lapsed into silence again, as she processed the images.

"That's all looking good," she said finally, turning to Rose.

Rose took that moment to let go of the breath she was holding, tears pricking her eyes once more. Everything was okay. Her baby was fine. The sonographer would ask her if she wanted to find out the baby's sex, but Rose had already decided she didn't want to know. She would rather have Sherlock with her to find out that news, and besides, they hadn't actually discussed it.

But before this exchange occurred, there was a disturbance outside in the passageway, with a female voice adding, "Let's knock first, shall we?"

There were two brief knocks on the door before it opened. A receptionist poked her head in and said, "Ms Sulford's left something in the waiting area. "A Mr Sco—"

"Yes," Rose said immediately, her breath hitching.

The receptionist smiled warmly and opened the door wider, allowing a sheepish-looking, but dashingly handsome man into the dimly-lit room.

"My apologies," Sherlock said, gifting the sonographer with a charming smile. "Traffic."

"Just finishing up," she said in return, moving slightly to one side. "But I'll give you a preview."

Sherlock moved closer to Rose. He glanced down at her, his eyes glistening. She gave him a tiny smile in reassurance. It was all she could manage since she was holding back her emotions. She didn't want to open the floodgates.

"All right, then," the sonographer said, drawing Sherlock's attention to the monitor.

Rose didn't return her view to the images of their baby. Instead, she carefully studied Sherlock. He had stilled, his face had softened, and his attention remained firmly on the screen.

"You've got a very busy baby, here," the sonographer said.

Sherlock's eyes widened almost imperceptibly, and his lips parted a tad. Rose reached for his hand. He immediately threaded his fingers through hers and gave them a squeeze.

And then he said, "Erm," and nothing else. Just that. It was as if his mouth had dried up. Sherlock Holmes was finally lost for words. Rose felt an enormous pressure building up behind her eyes and she bit down on her bottom lip.

"Oh, your baby's waving at ye!" the sonographer said, with a laugh. "That's a much better picture."

She pressed a few buttons—probably to save the image for them, Rose assumed. Sherlock took that moment to meet Rose's eyes.

"How are you?" he asked in a voice barely above a whisper.

Rose gave him a tiny nod and a smile. His own smile broadened. She guessed he knew she was feeling emotionally overwrought.

The sonographer, oblivious to their almost silent exchange, asked, "Now that baby's cooperating a little, did you want to—"

"Oh," Rose replied, shaking her head, "We haven't dis—"

"—find out its sex?"

Sherlock straightened up, puffing out his chest a little.

"Find out?" he repeated. "Isn't it fairly obvious it's a girl? You made it clear when you…"

He trailed off, for Rose's tiny gasp interrupted his explanation. He turned to her, two deep creases appearing in his brow.

"What?" he asked, completely oblivious.

* * *

Rose's light laughter warmed Sherlock's heart, even though he was still confused with her explanation that some people didn't want to know their baby's gender.

"That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard," he said in astonishment as they walked towards their parked car. "What are they going to do? Close their eyes every time they change a nappy? That will increase the difficulty of the task tenfold. Not that changing a nappy is a particularly complex task," he hastily added.

Rose started laughing again. At least her spirits had picked up and Sherlock hadn't been scolded for being late.

"No," she said. "I meant that they don't want to find out before the baby's born. They want to keep it a surprise for a little longer."

Sherlock huffed a sigh. They reached the car and Rose pressed the button to unlock the doors.

"Why wouldn't you go to the trouble of acquiring all available data? I'm driving, Rose."

Sherlock held out a hand for the car keys.

"I'm driving," Rose said, ignoring Sherlock's hand and opening the driver's side door.

Sherlock exhaled noisily, then reluctantly walked around to the other side of the car before climbing into the passenger seat.

Pulling on the seat belt, he said, "Isn't it a surprise at the time of the ultrasound scan? I mean, one second you don't know, and the next, you do. Therefore: surprise!"

"It's not quite the same."

Rose started the ignition, put the gear into reverse and looked over her shoulder to check for other vehicles. A single thought flitted through Sherlock's mind: that _he_ may have ruined the surprise for Rose.

"So..." he began cautiously, as Rose navigated the car through the medical centre car park. "Are you one of the cult-like minority who opt to remain ignorant about the gender-specific physical attributes of our baby?"

"Sorry?"

"Did I ruin your surprise?"

"No, Sherlock." Rose reached for his hand, halting the car before they pulled out onto the street. "I only wanted to know the sex if you were there with me." She gave him a warm smile and added, "I wasn't going to find out by myself."

Relief washed over him. Tardiness was one thing. Ruining a surprise was another.

"Where's your motorbike?" Rose asked after a fashion.

"Newcastle."

"How did you...?"

"I caught a flight this time. "

He knew Rose would be ruminating on that little fact.

"I know what you're thinking," he said.

"What?"

"Why don't I always fly."

"Well… yes."

Sherlock propped up his elbow on the door.

"Catching frequent flights to Edinburgh will draw my brother's attention, while travelling by train in and around London and occasionally around the rest of England barely raises an eyebrow. It's what I do. Cases. Legwork. Mycroft doesn't notice, or chooses to remain ignorant about my comings and goings. But a flight is another thing altogether. His busybodies at every port in the country will be poised to send him an internal memo. Obviously, I will catch a flight in an emergency, but I can't do that on a regular basis."

Sherlock told Rose that he had arranged for Bob to meet him at the airport with a hire car and a change of clothes. While Sherlock Holmes, the Consulting Detective from London, may have touched down in Edinburgh, he had disappeared somewhere on route to Sighthill, with Scott Williams taking his place.

Rose stared straight ahead, her fingers gripping the steering wheel a little harder. Sherlock didn't think this was good sign.

"That means," she began, her voice barely containing her displeasure, "Bob knew you were on your way, even before I left the house."

"Ye-es," Sherlock responded cautiously.

"So, he could've—"

"I told him not to say anything. I wanted to surprise you."

Rose's expression hardened even further and Sherlock was alarmed to see her eyes moistening.

"Rose?"

"Why didn't you—" She broke off, choking out a sob. "I needed to know, Sherlock!" Tears fell freely now, which she angrily brushed away. "I sat there, not knowing if you were coming or not… all alone in the waiting room. This… was… important!"

Sherlock opened and closed his mouth. A lump had formed in his throat. He had been expecting this, but then he thought he was in the clear after Rose had spent the last few minutes laughing at him.

"Rose, I—"

"There could've been something wrong with our baby!"

"I'm… sorry!"

"And _you weren't there!_ "

"I'm sorry."

" _You said you would be!_ "

"I tried—"

" _What if there was a problem!_ "

Rose couldn't contain her tears any longer and she gave up trying to wipe them away.

"Rose, pull over."

"I'm fine!"

"Take the next left! You're not fine!"

Although they were travelling at a fairly sedate speed, Sherlock discovered it was quite possible to angrily steer a vehicle around a corner.

"There's nowhere to park!" Rose snapped at him.

The left side of the narrow street was full of parked cars, only leaving room on the right for vehicles to pass.

"Pull into a driveway… there, just there!"

Rose turned the car into the narrow driveway Sherlock had indicated. Once the car had braked, Sherlock reached over and put the gear into park and pulled on the handbrake. Rose was noisily sobbing into her hands. Sherlock's heart stuttered in his chest.

"Rose—"

She raised her head and said, "You're a horrible person!" before she wrenched open the driver's door and had leapt from the car.

Sherlock was out in quick time. He rounded the back of the car to find Rose leaning up against the driver's side, hunched over and silently sobbing.

"Yes, I am horrible," he said, enveloping her in his embrace. "And thoughtless and ignorant," he continued in a low, soothing voice. "Please forgive me."

He knew he had to ride this one out. He put Rose's overreaction down to a surge in hormones. But he couldn't just dismiss what she was feeling. Her concern and worry about his whereabouts had been genuine.

"I'm sorry, Rose," he continued. "It was thoughtless of me not to tell you where I was and what my intentions were. I know this was an important scan. I know you were worried. I should've returned sooner."

Rose hiccuped, but her silent crying didn't appear to abate. Still, she remained in his arms while he gently rubbed her back. He thought he ought to remain quiet for a few minutes, to let her know he could be patient and caring and all of that. He just wished they weren't out in the open like this.

"And I apologise for announcing our baby's gender like that."

Rose gave one final sniff and raised her head. Her face was tear-stained and ruddy.

"It was perfect," she said, her voice thickened by emotion. "I wouldn't have wanted to find out any other way." She attempted to smile through her moist eyes. "Another one of your brilliant observations."

Sherlock gave Rose a half-smile, still feeling unsure of himself. Her emotions were well and truly see-sawing. It was slightly disconcerting.

Rose's eyes were searching his, and she finally said, "You didn't give me a hello kiss."

Sherlock's heart leapt into his throat. Now? Here? In broad daylight? But he dipped his head anyway. Dressed in light blue jeans, a t-shirt and a bomber jacket, he wasn't Sherlock Holmes in this context.

Their lips barely touched until Rose stood on her toes, lifted her arms and twined them around his neck. His lips skimmed hers, finding that they were already parted. Rose's fingers threaded into his curls and a yearning grew inside him at her scent and her touch. The kiss was soft and sweet, tentative at first, before deepening into something tender and patient. When he drew back, Rose's eyes had darkened.

"Hello, Rose," Sherlock said, lightly touching his forehead to hers. "Let's go home."

.


	85. Sherlock Holmes is Nothing Like Him

"Nope. Nothing," Sherlock said.

Rose rolled away from him with a sigh.

"Every time you… _oh_! There she goes again."

Sherlock chuckled his low rumble of a laugh and lay back so he could turn to face Rose. Creases had appeared in her brow as she placed her flat palm on the side of her belly and concentrated. She had asked him if he could feel the baby kick when she pressed herself up against his back. He could not.

"I'm sure the kicks will become more pronounced as your pregnancy progresses," Sherlock said reassuringly. He reached out and gave Rose's tummy a rub as well. "And I _didn't_ say you were imagining things." Rose had told him the faint flutters and bubbly sensations would sometimes precede a little internal tap or push. He didn't doubt it.

Rose tutted and Sherlock took that as his cue to leave.

"Chamomile, was it?" he asked, pulling on his pyjama bottoms as he sat on the edge of the bed.

Rose hummed in agreement and was already absorbed in something on her iPad—her pregnancy progress app, he assumed.

Sherlock donned his pyjama shirt and pulled on a dressing gown. Not bothering to tie the sash on his gown, he padded downstairs to put the kettle on. Bob and Justine would probably be arriving any minute now, and it was for that reason Sherlock and Rose had moved their night-time snuggling on the sofa to their bed upstairs.

At least they'd had the run of the place for the extended weekend they had given themselves, apart from Rose having to attend her seminars and lectures on Thursday and Friday. When an amorous Sherlock attempted to give Rose a proper greeting in the privacy of their entranceway after returning from the clinic on Wednesday, Rose had playfully pushed against his chest and warned him they had lodgers now.

Sherlock happily informed her that he had encouraged Bob and Justine to take the hire car, and give themselves an extra long stay in Blackpool. But they were due back tonight so Sherlock could leave in the early hours of Monday morning. He'd drive the hire car back to the airport and catch an early flight to London. The early hours of the morning were conducive to transforming a security officer from the diplomatic services back into the World's Only Consulting Detective.

As Sherlock leant against the kitchen counter waiting for the kettle to boil, he reflected on the weekend he'd just experienced. Again, he was a little saddened to have to leave Rose. The case once more necessitated this. Scotland Yard's finest D.I. hadn't made any progress on the origins of the three Thatcher busts that had been destroyed, nor had he made any connection between the households to whom they belonged. Lestrade needed to be prompted—or prodded—by Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective, while Scott Williams would again be relegated to undertake a boring security detail at some diplomatic black tie event in South Korea.

Sherlock had spied Mr Scott Williams and his ordinariness one afternoon. At first, the sight of him threw Sherlock—scared him a little, even.

Sherlock had taken to "strolling" with Rose. She'd first mentioned it on Thursday night, telling Sherlock that she walked regularly with Bob and Justine and it was so nice to get out and about in the fresh air and take in the sights and sounds of their neighbourhood.

Sherlock knew the Wilsons weren't indulging in a "stroll" in the normal sense. The former intelligence agents were scouting the area, familiarising themselves with the neighbours and their comings and goings: which families walked dogs or which individuals jogged frequently, which parents made the school runs, what the regular delivery lorries looked like and on what schedule they operated. And they had invited Rose along because they knew she would be safer in their company than alone at home.

So, Sherlock acquiesced, partly to take up the responsibility on behalf of their lodgers and partly because his pregnant girlfriend needed to get out and about in the fresh air. But Sherlock Holmes didn't "stroll"—walk with purpose, perhaps; trudge behind a bloodhound, most definitely; or sprint in hot pursuit of a suspect, very welcome.

Early Saturday afternoon, Sherlock and Rose were walking—strolling—along the lane that would eventually lead them to the high street. Canaan Lane ran alongside a primary school, which was buzzing with the aftermath of a weekend event. Cars were choking the school driveway as they carefully negotiated out into the lane, and the kerb-sides strained with parents and small children spilling out into the street.

One mother suddenly grasped her toddler's hand, and said, "Careful, love."

Sherlock didn't fail to notice Rose's curious gaze, and the almost imperceptible slowing of her pace. Her eyes had taken on a dreamlike quality as she took in the various pairings and groupings of young children and their guardians. He saw her sigh before her eyes met his. He gave her a tiny smile in acknowledgement— _acknowledging what, exactly?_ —and felt her hand brush his. Before he knew what he was doing, he had linked his fingers into hers.

As they cleared the school spillage, the carnage and debris dotting the road in larger and larger intervals, Rose remarked, "This is a lovely neighbourhood for raising children."

Her words held all kinds of connotations for Sherlock. Children. Plural. Raising them. Families and schooling and permanence and cars with child seats and holding hands. Supervising the young and the uneducated in the rudiments of crossing the road. Here. Edinburgh. Commitment. Laying down roots.

Sherlock had hummed agreeably but had blinked uncomfortably. And then his chest heaved and he gulped in air. His heart beat a steady rhythm and his cerebral cortex, now with well-worn expertise, flooded his system with dopamine. This was the kind of light-headedness he'd experienced when he saw their baby on the ultrasound monitor for the first time. It knocked the breath out of him. Future planning had never entered his core being before. Hope for some kind of exciting event had been driven out of his mind when he was quite young. To hope for something was to ultimately find yourself disappointed. Devastated, even. Traumatised, perhaps.

But this. This life was entirely plausible and available to him should he continue down this path. And of course he would.

He said something to Rose, something about fitting a babyseat on the back of a motorbike and she had laughed. Her eyes sparkled and she leant into him, linking her arm through his for a bit until they resumed holding hands as they had done before.

As they strolled along Morningside Road, browsing through shop windows (and that was another curious add-on to the whole "strolling" thing), Sherlock spotted him. Scott Williams. The man was in his element, wearing dark shades, a navy motorcycle jacket—Belstaff, naturally—and jeans. He strode hand in hand with his pregnant girlfriend and grinned at something she'd said. Not a care in the world. He carried a plastic shopping bag containing a number of purchases his girlfriend had made from the Waitrose on the corner, and he was a little unshaven from deciding to stop the obsessive grooming that distinguished him from a suit-wearing Consulting Detective from London, for example. Sherlock saw his reflection in a shop window for just a second, but the image had stunned him.

"Is it too early for chips?" Rose had asked him, eyeing the kebab shop a little further down the road. "I dragged you all the way here," she continued with a chuckle, "so I may as well reward you for your efforts."

It was in that moment that Sherlock realised just how lucky Mr Williams was. His girlfriend loved and respected him. Adored him, too, from the looks she was giving him. He felt invincible and entirely comfortable in this skin he had acquired. But Sherlock Holmes, not Scott Williams, could have it all.

The front door clicked shut, and Sherlock was jolted out of his reverie. He turned and filled the two mugs with hot water.

"I'm in here," he said, as two pairs of light footsteps tried to creep across the entranceway towards the stairs.

"Evening," Bob said, as he and Justine entered the kitchen.

"All right, love?" Justine added.

"So how was it then?" Sherlock asked, glancing briefly behind him. "Your weekend in Blackpool?"

"Oh, lovely to see the lad again," Justine replied, crossing to the other side of the kitchen while Bob sank into a dining chair. She retrieved the milk from the fridge and brought it over to Sherlock as Bob described his delight in watching their grandson toddle about. They didn't need to ask Sherlock how the scan went, because Justine had urged him on Wednesday to text her how it went that very afternoon. And he hadn't forgotten.

"But you don't want to natter to us all night," Justine said as Sherlock added milk to their tea. "Up you go." She gave his arm a light squeeze.

Sherlock attempted to protest, offering them both a cuppa as well, but Justine waved him away. He bid them a goodnight and took his and Rose's beverages upstairs.

She was still reading, and looked up and smiled when Sherlock entered.

"Was that Bob and Justine?" she asked.

Sherlock hummed in the affirmative and rounded the bed, placing Rose's tea down onto her bedside table.

"I should go say hello," she said, casting her iPad aside.

"No, Justine shooed me away. She knows we don't have much time left together. I daresay you'll see her in the morning."

Rose silently grabbed back her iPad. Sherlock knew what that silence meant; she was in a thoughtful reticence after being reminded that he was leaving in the early hours. To cheer her up, he started telling her about the case of the vandalised Thatcher busts.

To Rose's credit, she listened attentively, quietly sipping her tea.

"Three busts," Sherlock said in conclusion. "All identical, all located in the Greater London area. The question is: are there any more? I'm waiting on Lestrade to trace their origins."

"Sounds intriguing," Rose said, a pleasant smile on her face. She reached for his hand and gave it a squeeze. "Quite a puzzle for you. I'm glad." Her eyes twinkled a little, and Sherlock was relieved her delight was genuine.

"I'll… keep you posted then."

He gifted her with a broad smile, then reached for his phone. Rose returned her attention to her own screen.

"And what are your plans for the coming week?" Sherlock asked conversationally, as he tapped a rude message to the ineffective D.I.

He heard Rose's almost imperceptible sigh, which always signalled to him that she had already given him this information during a previous conversation.

"Oh, that's right," he said, trying not to react in any way as the details in question came to the forefront of his mind. He was getting good at this. "Your stint in prison. Sounds like fun."

Thankfully, Rose chuckled.

It _didn't_ sound like fun, and Sherlock couldn't refrain from voicing his concerns about his attractive and pregnant girlfriend—that is, _vulnerable_ girlfriend—on a little uni field trip that would have her consorting with the inmates of Saughton Prison.

"Not _consorting,_ " Rose said, with a laugh. "Working alongside the Crime Reduction Initiative and helping a handful of drug-affected prisoners deal with the effects of their substance misuse while they're incarcerated. This'll help them when they're released. My volunteer work to-date will come in handy."

"Misuse. Now that's the key word here. You see, the problem with the youth of today—write this down in your notes." He waved a hand at Rose's iPad. "You have to know how to correctly _use_ Class A drugs."

"Yes, there'll be no more of _that_ , thank you, Sherlock Holmes."

"I should write a blog post about it," he said, with a mischievous grin. "Or perhaps a series of tweets. Hashtag _Cocaine-and-Crime-Solving_."

"You can't enlighten your Twitter followers on how to administer Class A drugs."

"Why restrict it to Class A? I could get anecdotal evidence from you about Class B drugs. Speaking of which, how are you coping with your own abstinence?"

Rose arched an eyebrow at him.

"Very well, thank you. Justine's taught me some relaxation techniques. Yoga… if you must know. Perhaps we could try it together when you get back?"

Sherlock's stomach roiled in horror. Strolling. Hand holding. And now yoga. Whatever was becoming of him? He let Rose know his distaste via the deep creases in his brow.

"Do you actually _want_ me to return?" he said.

A tiny laugh escaped Rose once more, and she leant into him and gave him a kiss on his cheek.

"We're going to be responsible parents soon," she said. "No more case-related drug-taking… or any drug-taking for that matter."

Sherlock had an affirmative 'mm' at the ready. He hadn't even thought of his substance _use_ since reconciling with Rose. He was operating on a natural high these days.

"So, what does everybody think?" Rose asked after a period of silence that had Sherlock staring blankly into space.

"Sorry, what?" he responded, blinking a couple of times to bring his mind back into focus.

"About our news. What do they think, back in London?"

"Who?"

"Your friends… and… family."

Sherlock's pause was rather telling, prompting Rose to add, "You haven't told anyone, have you?"

"I…"

He didn't know how to explain it. It wasn't because he considered their news unexciting or trivial. He understood there'd be a day when anybody he considered worthy would know he had both a girlfriend and a baby. But there existed a cavernous divide between today and that day. How to breach it?

"I haven't found the right moment," he hastily added into the ensuing uncomfortable silence.

Uncomfortable for him, that is.

Thankfully, a reassuring smile grew on Rose's face, and she reached for his hand.

"It's difficult isn't it?" she asked, affectionately caressing the back of his hand with her thumb. After Sherlock returned her smile half-heartedly, she added, "I mean, look at my family. My news wasn't exactly greeted with baby showers and cute announcements on Facebook."

"Baby showers?"

"Google it."

Sherlock was surprised Rose remained in good spirits with her off-hand remark on how her family treated her upon confirming her pregnancy to them.

"I'm sure you'll find a way to tell them," Rose said, giving his hand a final pat before looking back at her screen.

Their evening eventually wound down into dimming lights and snuggles under warm blankets. They both fell asleep, limbs entwining, with Rose's head nestled into the crook of Sherlock's neck, her light, steady breathing warming his skin.

Before he completely roused himself in the early hours, he felt Rose stirring first. It was as if her own internal alarm clock had woken her at precisely the right moment before Sherlock had to rise and leave while the sun filtered weakly through the morning mist.

Her wandering hand skimmed his chest as she kissed the underside of his jaw. Sherlock hummed agreeably, which encouraged Rose to nibble the vulnerable skin of his neck while one hand continued to trail over his taut abdomen. He welcomed each new sensation, his body poised for more. As her hand ran lower, his response was almost instantaneous. His penis thanked him for his apathy as Sherlock luxuriated in Rose's efforts. It was the least he could do. But as Rose increased pressure, Sherlock remembered he wasn't usually that selfish. He indulged himself in the feel of her expert touch just a few seconds longer before he moved to respond in kind.

Sherlock's mouth brushed over Rose's, and with an act that required a great deal of strength and restraint, he gave her a long, stirring kiss. Stirring for whom? Certainly not him; he was well and truly stirred by now. But he drew out a quiet moan of satisfaction from Rose as he slid a hand between them and set to work.

_There now. We're even._

Rose sensuously slid herself over Sherlock, before she straddled him and took him into her. He gasped at her forthrightness. Clearly, she hadn't received the memo. Well, two can play at that game.

But Sherlock forgot for a moment that he was dealing with an expert. Even in the morning half-light, he could see she had that determined look in her eye. Who was he to refuse such a demand? The pressure between them was glorious. He managed to keep pace with Rose, but she was ruthless. Sherlock was sure he'd told her 'no' at some point… or perhaps it had been yes. A reluctant yes, if so. No matter. She should feel thoroughly chastised for ignoring hm, in any case.

She elicited primal urges in him that he did his best to quell. But who could argue wth a pregnant woman? Rose had taken matters into her own hands. Sherlock's body ached, but it was a sweet ache. And then the sweetness became an urgent longing he had to fulfil.

"Christ, no," he rasped.

Rose chuckled.

Chuckled!

She was evil, but not the pure, unadulterated kind.

As the world erupted around him, his mind blanking, Sherlock had never felt more deliciously used.

"Rose," he gasped, wondering how to begin his apology. He realised too late that, for him, the train had well and truly left the station, even arriving at his final destination, while he had left Rose stranded at the platform. Her fault, really. But why had she woken him up in this way? His chest heaved as he forced out the rest of his words. "What… what was that?"

"That's for leaving me," she replied in a hoarse whisper.

Sherlock gave himself a moment to consider a suitable response. He was being punished for going back to London? But the punishment didn't seem to fit the crime.

"And... what would I get if I didn't leave you?" he ventured.

"You'd get that twice a day. Something to think about, isn't it?"

Another light laugh escaped Rose, and she climbed from him, seeming to delight in the effect this comment had on him. So she had pleasured him to remind him what he was missing out on. Clever. But who had she done this to, Sherlock wondered. Scott Williams or Sherlock Holmes?

"I need a shower," she said, disappearing into the ensuite bathroom. "I've got an early start."

An early start. Sherlock rolled his eyes. An early start at HMP Edinburgh, cavorting with the inmates. And then a moment of panic struck him. He'd left her all needy and she was going to a place where needs weren't met in the usual way.

But before he could scramble from the bed, Rose called out, "Are you coming in?" Sherlock could hear the water running in the shower. "To apologise?" she added. There was laughter in her voice. Dammit. She knew him so well; in this particular instance, she'd recognised his guilt in taking for himself and giving nothing back.

Of course he would offer an apology. Apologies given in this manner were sure to leave Rose not only satisfied, but buzzing for a full week to come. And then, next weekend, he would apologise again.

* * *

Rose didn't see Sherlock the following weekend, and as the second week of his absence slowly drew to a close, she began to panic that he also wouldn't be available at the end of the uni trimester for their mini-break to Paris.

"Tell me when it is again?" he asked over the phone that evening.

Rose could hear the exasperation in his tone. That stupid case that was going nowhere formed the basis of his mood. _Welsborough, Hassan, Barnicot_. The names swam around her own head now, she'd heard Sherlock mention them so often. Not that she cared what they stood for.

"The eighth of May. It's a Friday. But if you can only spare the weekend, I'd really like to leave early on the eighth. I won't have any lectures or seminars."

"Right."

Then he went silent and Rose knew he was calculating something. Her chest tightened and she felt ill. She hated herself for placing too much importance on this trip in her own mind. It was just a stupid weekend. It didn't have to mean anything. Paris? Why was that important? But she remembered that at the time she and Sherlock were planning it, it seemed like a pivotal moment in their relationship.

She had already told him she loved him. That confession formed the basis of their goodbye ritual. Sherlock had drunkenly confessed to loving her on John's stag night, but there was no reciprocation of sentiment on Sherlock's part on a normal day. He had some sort of block. He couldn't say the words. But what he did say, that night in the bathtub when they were discussing holidays, was that he thought they were currently living happily ever after. It had seemed funny at the time—a naïve declaration. But it had warmed her considerably; his statement told her she had every right to happiness, and that it was possible with the man she loved. _This_ man. Sherlock Holmes. This was something she'd forgotten towards the end of last year.

But why Paris? Because their plans had been messed up once before? That was an argument _against_ travelling to the French capital, surely. They could just as easily celebrate that pivotal moment by taking another bath together. Why not? It was just as symbolic.

In response to Sherlock's silence, Rose exhaled resignedly.

"Look, Sherlock. We don't have to go. It was only a good idea if you were available."

"What? Why are you saying that? Don't you want to go?"

"Yes, I do." Rose paused, struggling against her emotions, with practicalities winning out. "But you're working, and—"

"And I'll have it solved by then. Perhaps not this weekend, but definitely by the eighth."

"Sherlock—"

"Lestrade's an idiot. He's showing his age. All I need to do is trace the plaster busts back to an original—"

"Sherlock."

"—supplier. Lestrade said these things take time, but he doesn't have a hacker at his disposal. I do. Now all I need to do is question the supplier about past dealings, former employers, that sort of thing, and then—"

"Sherlock, stop!"

"—find out if there are any other cop… what?"

"We don't have to go so soon."

Her heart beat erratically in her chest. She just needed the world to slow down for a second. Sherlock also sounded like he was trying to speed things up—to get everything done in as short a timeframe as possible. She felt exhausted.

"But you want to go."

"No."

"Rose."

It was then that she choked and hiccuped out a sob. She was pathetic. She knew this would happen if she spoke to him. She'd managed to avoid all hormonal responses these last two weeks. Uni studies and volunteer work kept her busy and distracted, but now, after hearing his voice lowered to a sympathetic pitch, she had fallen to pieces.

"I miss you," she said in a tiny voice, her unseen tears spilling out.

"I miss you, too."

Now that was too much, she thought, her breath hitching on the way out.

"Come to London," Sherlock said, when Rose couldn't recompose herself. He said it so smoothly, it was like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

"I can't. I've got… things..." _To do_ , she thought. Things to do. Data to gather, an analysis to write, interviews to conduct. All before the end of the trimester. But she couldn't calm down long enough to tell Sherlock this.

"If not now, then in two week's time," Sherlock explained warmly. "During your break. You have a week off, don't you? We'll book you into a nice little serviced apartment. And Sherlock Holmes will be part of that service. It's something we provide visitors to London. A sort of welcome package. And there isn't an equivalent service in Paris. I checked."

Laughter bubbled up inside Rose, but it escaped as a kind of mutant sob-laugh.

"And perhaps I can sneak you over to Baker Street," Sherlock continued. "In the dead of night. We can stay in all day Sunday and play Cluedo while Mrs Hudson is hoovering."

Rose laughed. A lazy Sunday. "I like that idea," she said. And they would have their bath together, then, for old times' sake. It didn't have to be Paris.

"I'll talk to you again soon," Sherlock said, obviously satisfied he had talked Rose back from the edge.

They said their goodbyes with Rose's heart feeling just as heavy as before. But she now had something to look forward to, rather than a future disappointment to fear. And they had something to celebrate before the baby came. Their own happy ever after.

.


	86. Hanging Off My Gun Arm

Rose gasped, her heart tripping even though the intruder now lowered the gun and lifted the ski mask revealing their features in the half-light.

"Jesus Christ!" Mary Watson muttered under her breath.

Rose could've made the same exclamation herself upon identifying the masked gunman as the mother of Sherlock Holmes's god-daughter, but she was still frozen with fear.

It should've come as no surprise that the Baker Street residence was going to attract all manner of visitors during Rose's secret weekend stay in London. But she hadn't counted on meeting one in the middle of the night as she made a bid for the kitchen during her usual nightly awake time.

Rose had left Sherlock's ensuite bathroom via the door to the passageway instead of returning to his bedroom. The father-to-be lay fast asleep, snoring lightly, underneath crisp white sheets. Rose had to disentangle herself from his embrace. He must've been exhausted, she thought, or still feeling the effects of whatever poison Mary Watson had drugged him with during their meeting in one of Sherlock's bolt holes the night before.

Rose was quite sure Sherlock wouldn't stir in her absence. She hadn't flushed the toilet and had quietly washed her hands. She didn't want to wake him and have him worry that she wasn't sleeping properly in his London residence.

"My God," Mary added, her eyes dropping to Rose's abdomen. "He _has_ been busy."

The air had taken on a surreal quality, and Rose didn't quite know how to process this situation.

"Not... very busy," she ventured in response to Mary's comment. "I'm sure it wasn't much more than five minutes on his part. Ten minutes tops."

Mary snorted out a laugh, that she quickly stifled.

"Oh, Rose," she said, her face softening. Mary took a couple of steps towards Rose as if to embrace her. "Sorry," she swiftly added when she saw Rose stiffen. She waved the gun in front of her. "It's not loaded. It's Sherlock's. I just wanted to borrow it."

Mary enveloped Rose in her arms and whispered, "Congratulations. I'm so happy for you both."

Upon being released, Rose gave Mary a tiny smile. What could she do, really, other than keep a deadly assassin on side, loaded gun or not.

"I'd love to stay and chat," Mary said, stepping towards the door, "but—"

" _Rose?_ "

Rose's attention was immediately drawn towards Sherlock's voice, where he'd obviously called to her from the second he'd opened his bedroom door. She could hear him striding towards them through the kitchen. She turned to Mary, to check if the former assassin was going to threaten her should she open her mouth to reply to Sherlock, when she realised Mary had disappeared in that instant.

"Are you all right?" Sherlock said urgently, reaching her and lightly grasping Rose by the shoulders.

She nodded, still in shock.

"Good," Sherlock said, before he released her and flew through the doorway to the landing. He disappeared down the stairs, making a great deal more noise in his descent than Mary Watson apparently had.

Rose exhaled a shaky breath, still rooted to the spot. She felt light-headed and the room swayed a little. She drew in another steadying breath and moved toward the living room table, which she then leant on for support. She heard Sherlock thundering back upstairs.

"Gone," he said, striding across the threshold, his own chest heaving. He looked about him, his gaze examining all corners of the room.

"She took your—"

"Gun," Sherlock finished for her. "Of course. She didn't want to risk going back home for either hers or John's."

"Wonderful," Rose murmured.

"Are you all right?" he asked. "You look as white as a sheep."

Rose shook her head lightly.

"A sheet," she said vaguely.

"Sorry?"

"I think you mean 'as white as a sheet', not 'sheep'."

"Well, sheep are white aren't they? Except for the black ones."

Rose stared at Sherlock blankly, before saying, "And no, I'm not all right. I've never had a gun pointed at me before."

Sherlock furrowed his brow in confusion and said, "Really?"

"Yes, really! It's not an everyday occurrence for most people."

"Oh. Okay." At that moment, he appeared to look at her, really look at her, and his eyes widened. "Oh!" he said, jolting into action. "Sorry, here." He gestured toward the sofa and put a soft hand to the small of Rose's back. "I'll make you a nice cup of tea… it'll help you get over the shock… of having an empty gun pointed at you." He couldn't quite disguise the amusement in his tone, which only served to upset Rose even further.

"Sherlock!" She refused to take his invitation to sit down and have tea. Turning to face him, she said, "This isn't funny!"

"A little bit funny."

"How can you say that? Why have you gone to the trouble of securing our house and having a security detail escort me everywhere, when you're quite happy to let an armed assassin stroll in here and point a gun at me?"

"Oh, relax, Rose. It was only Mary."

" _Only Mary_? The woman who shot you? The woman who poisoned you? The woman who's on the run and you're supposed to be tracking? That Mary?"

"Well, if you hadn't made me turn my phone onto silent for the evening…"

Rose straightened up and folded her arms in front of her, fixing Sherlock with an icy glare.

"…I'd have received Craig's message sooner. It's a wonder John…"

Sherlock trailed off, his eyes taking on a distant look.

"What?"

"John," Sherlock said, suddenly taking Rose by the arm. "Craig sent his message over ten minutes ago."

Down below, the front door slammed shut.

"Go, Rose!"

"What?"

"John!" Sherlock said in an urgent whisper.

Sherlock pushed Rose lightly in the direction of the open doors leading to the kitchen. She swiftly vacated the living area as footsteps thudded on the stairs.

 _You're fucking joking_ , Rose thought, fuming as she continued on to Sherlock's bedroom where she had to hide for the second time that weekend.

"So," she heard John Watson ask. "Is she here?"

* * *

"Been and gone," Sherlock replied, nonchalantly turning from John and running a hand through his curls.

"Did you see her? Speak to her?"

"No… she was…" He turned back to face John and waved a flippant hand in the air. "… in and out before I discovered her."

The creases in John's brow deepened.

"Did you even get Craig's messages?"

"I was asleep."

"He sent five! And rang you twice!"

"A heavy sleep. Must still be the effects of Mary's special paper."

"Why did she even come back? The tracker had her on her way to Dover, we thought."

"She must've realised she needed a gun. It's missing… my gun…" Sherlock said, gesturing toward the wooden box on the living room table that he assumed was now empty.

" _Your_ gun?" John said, blinking in disbelief. "Since when do you own a gun?"

"Well… you moved out. I've acquired a couple over the last few months."

"Right… well, thanks for falling asleep on the job. We could've had Mary back before she'd even left the country."

"You can hardly talk. You've got lines on the side of your face that clearly match the texture of the fabric on Craig's sofa, plus Toby's hairs are prominent along one side of your shirt. Both of these clues are fairly suggestive of the fact that you were lying down on the job, too. I don't know why you didn't wait at home. Craig's monitoring Mary's movements and we did agree to let her travel for a bit to give her time to relax and lower her guard."

"Yes," said John wearily, "but if she hadn't even left England, we could've… I dunno…" He raked a hand over his face.

The weight of the situation sat heavily on Sherlock's shoulders. He encouraged his friend to go home, adding that Molly probably had to rise early for work and would need to be relieved of her babysitting duties. On a normal night—or early hours of a morning—Sherlock may have offered John a cup of tea and a chat by the fireside, but the detective suspected his secret pregnant girlfriend may need some urgent attention first.

"Turn up the bloody volume on your phone this time," John muttered as he left the flat.

Sherlock closed the living room door behind his friend, hesitated, then locked it for good measure. As he left the living room for the bedroom, he wondered why Rose had been wandering about the flat in the middle of the night. Was she having trouble sleeping? If his phone's constant vibrating hadn't made it tumble to the floor, Sherlock may never have woken up in time.

In time for what, though? Clearly Rose was in no danger.

Sherlock entered the bedroom to find Rose fully dressed and rummaging through her handbag. She looked up when he entered.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

"I'm going back to Edinburgh."

"Your flight doesn't leave until six."

"So I'm going back to the apartment for the rest of my things. I can't go back to sleep now, Sherlock. I still have to get up before dawn so I can sneak out without anybody seeing. I'll feel worse if I try to sleep. And I've got too much adrenalin…"

"Just… stay. For a cup of tea. We've hardly…"

Rose's expression hardened. Sherlock knew that look. It was his fault they'd hardly spent the weekend together. That's what Rose was going to say.

But she blinked, as if to rethink her words.

"I know you were busy on a case… unforeseen circumstances."

"Yes."

 _Unforeseen circumstances_. Like finding the AGRA memory stick in the last Thatcher bust, instead of the missing pearl.

"And it didn't work out for us this time," Rose continued.

Sherlock internally deflated. Rose wasn't happy with her visit. He could hardly blame her. The case though. It had definitely taken an interesting turn.

If he hadn't wasted time on Lestrade's wild goose chase—investigating Lucy Venucci, a former employee of Mohandes Hassan, one of the bust owners—he may have lured the culprit out into the open sooner. With the heavy police presence surrounding the three properties so far, Sherlock deduced his quarry was laying low. It was only when he advised Lestrade to issue a statement to the press that the series of burglaries and vandalisms were unrelated, that Ajay, as Sherlock now knew him, continued on his destructive path. Unfortunately, Sherlock had obtained the list of names of the other owners of the Thatcher busts from Craig the Hacker one day too late for Miss Orrie Harker.

On thinking he was going to Reading on Thursday night to finally solve the case of the black pearl of the Borgias, Sherlock had enthusiastically invited Rose to London for the weekend. He rented her a holiday apartment until he could sneak her into Baker Street. She wasn't impressed when he had shown up at the apartment halfway through Friday, sporting bruises about his torso from his fight with Ajay in Jack Sandeford's house the night before. And she was even less impressed when he had asked to borrow Bob Wilson for the afternoon, since he needed the former spy's particular skillset in fitting a nano-sized GPS tracker into the AGRA memory stick before arranging a meeting with Mary.

John's idea. Good one, though.

But Sherlock could've used Rose's expertise in negotiating with John not to say anything to Mary, until Sherlock had spoken to her about Ajay's accusation and threat. That conversation took all of Friday morning. Working with Bob and Craig to get the tracking chipset to talk to Craig's server took most of the afternoon. Sherlock was thankful Rose had friends—her old co-workers at the entertainment store—to catch up with, and he promised her he'd visit the apartment that night after his meeting with Mary. However, he hadn't counted on being poisoned. That took a little longer to get out of his system. Rose had been mildly sympathetic but quietly fuming. He knew she thought little enough of Mary as it was.

And so the only real time he'd had with Rose, was after smuggling her into 221B in the early hours of Sunday morning. They did get to spend most of Sunday together, with the exception of a few hours when John came over to rant and rave and generally freak out a little. Rose had to hide in the bedroom during that time.

"And no," Sherlock had said to Rose when he escaped into his room under the guise of retrieving his phone. "Now is not a good time to tell John our news. He's got a bit on his mind at the moment."

There were dark storm clouds brewing around Rose when Sherlock gave her that advice.

But now the weekend was over and Rose was heading back to Edinburgh.

"So, it'll work out next time," Sherlock said with an encouraging smile.

"I don't think there'll be a next time, Sherlock. I think it's much better if you continue coming to Edinburgh."

Sherlock felt a little bit insulted that he, in his natural habitat, didn't hold any appeal for Rose. She had gasped when he had turned up at the apartment on Friday. When he'd questioned her about why she seemed so stunned, she'd said, "I haven't seen Sherlock Holmes in such a long time."

He thought three weeks hadn't been that long a separation, until he realised his current appearance as Sherlock Holmes—the bespoke suit and Belstaff coat-wearing detective—as opposed to Scott Williams, was who Rose had been referring to. She basically flung herself at him, and he grimaced at the pressure she'd placed on his bruises.

But after the weekend he'd just given her, Sherlock Holmes's appearance wasn't good enough for her. She clearly preferred Mr Williams.

"And so I'm supposed to continue commuting, am I?" he asked, feeling defensive. "And keeping up the pretense in Edinburgh?"

As soon as the words left his lips, Sherlock knew they were the wrong ones. He bowed his head and sighed, but it was too late.

"Pretense?" Rose repeated.

"You know what I mean."

"No… let's just be clear. What pretense? Which part were you pretending, Sherlock? Spending time with me? Helping Bob in the garden? Walking to the shops together? Enjoying all of the above? Which one?"

"I just meant the name," he said defeatedly. "And the clothes. That's all."

He was back-peddling, and she knew it. Her eyes moistened and she sniffed. Sherlock's mind went into overdrive. He had to make it up to her.

"Stay," he said, reaching for her. "Just a bit longer. I've got a plan."

"The weekend's over."

"But you've got the whole week off, haven't you? It's the trimester break. And seeing you on the weekends is only an arbitrary stipulation we put in place to separate work from play. I'm self-employed, remember? And I've got a plan."

He had no plan, but he was confident he'd think of one eventually.

"A cup of tea," he continued. "Then I'll get Bob to pick you up shortly. I'll meet you back at the apartment later. I promise you. You'll enjoy this."

"You promise me?"

"Absolutely."

Rose finally acquiesced, but said she'd skip the tea. She was so tired she just wanted to go back to the apartment and sleep all day. Not having to fly back to Edinburgh seemed particularly appealing to her.

And now all Sherlock had to do was think of a plan.

* * *

Rose felt Sherlock's naked form curl around her. She sighed contentedly, deciding to go back to sleep. Their slow and tender love-making that morning was deeply satisfying. Rose had been careful to avoid putting pressure on Sherlock's bruises. She couldn't believe he was so casual about fighting a man who was a secret agent and former assassin. Like Mary.

Sherlock didn't seem to care that Mary had encountered an expectant Rose in his flat, even though he was adamant that John wasn't to know about Rose and the pregnancy just yet.

"Mary knows how to keep secrets," he'd told her.

 _She knows how to keep secrets from her husband,_ Rose had thought darkly.

She knew when Sherlock left the bed to shower and dress. She heard him make a couple of phone calls, but couldn't hear what they were about. But all too soon, he was kissing her fully awake.

"Goodbye, Rose," he whispered.

"I love you," she murmured sleepily.

"I love you, too."

And he was away, with promises to return later that evening with his plans for the week.

Rose couldn't sleep once he'd left. The weekend had started off quite disappointingly, and she hated to get her hopes up that Sherlock wouldn't become distracted by something case-related. Was she behaving selfishly?

Rose showered and dressed and sent a text to Bob telling him she was up and about. She asked him if he wanted to accompany her to buy something for lunch. Naturally, he obliged, and Rose felt a bit guilty in getting the super-spy to perform such menial tasks. She would've preferred Justine to accompany her to London, but they had decided she would stay in Edinburgh to look after the house. And Sherlock had insisted that Bob was to stick to Rose whenever she went out and about.

They shopped for eggs and a crusty loaf and salad ingredients and were about to head home via cab when Bob received a text.

"I have to pick something up from the airport," he told her. "So I'll drop you back at the apartment."

"Oh. Will you be back this afternoon? I was going to visit a friend in Bayswater."

"Yes. Possibly. But you won't have time."

Rose's heart sank. She'd just worked up the nerve to visit Tonya Small. Although their friendship had started to dissolve by the time Rose left for Edinburgh, she still felt some affection for the Clarence House Cannibal. Tonya had been quite wrong about Sherlock, and way out of line in trying to break them up, but in all other respects, the older woman had been quite supportive of Rose when she had needed it most.

"Or I could go there now?" she said.

Bob shook his head.

"Sorry, love. Can't allow it."

"But I used to live there. I know the area."

"Strict orders."

Disappointed, Rose sank into the back of the taxi. Once they reached the apartment, the cabbie waited while Bob escorted Rose upstairs. She felt quite silly. With the exception of her Mary Watson encounter, just how dangerous was London supposed to be for her now?

Bob bid her a goodbye and left Rose to prepare her lunch in solitude. Again, she was quite bored. Since she was beginning new units for the second trimester, she didn't even have anything to study. She watched TV for a while, then decided to have an extra long shower, then perhaps a nap afterwards. She was always so tired these days.

Two hours later, she woke with a start when her phone buzzed beside her. Bob was on his way back.

Rose stretched and yawned and regretted falling asleep during the daytime. It was always so disorienting. She answered the door when Bob knocked and was surprised to see that Justine was with him.

"What's going on?" Rose asked, arching her brow in suspicion. This had Sherlock Holmes written all over it.

Justine had brought another small suitcase with her from Edinburgh, in addition to her own.

"You'd better check it, love," she said to Rose. "I've brought you some extra things from your wardrobe. I hope they still fit."

Rose had an inkling, but she dared not say anything out loud. It wasn't until they were sitting in the departure lounge that she allowed a tiny bit of excitement to trickle in. Justine had also brought Rose's passport from home.

But Sherlock wasn't here. There was still a chance he'd be stuck in London on another damn case.

Curiously, Bob and Justine weren't surprised when Rose was informed her seat had been upgraded. While the Wilsons continued on through to the rear of the aircraft, Rose found herself ushered into business class. She was shown to the centre aisle where there were two adjacent seats. In one, sat a smartly dressed young man who seemed determined to ignore all those around him, preferring to tap away on his phone.

When the flight attendant had stopped fussing around Rose and her neighbour, she felt the man's arm press up against hers. A warmth flooded through her, but she resolutely stared straight ahead.

In a low voice, meant for her ears only, he said, "I keep my promises."


	87. Having Fun While I Can

" _You're what?_ " came John's demanding tone. The man seemed to have only one default setting these days. Irate.

Sherlock inhaled a calming breath before answering. For some reason, he felt a little bit responsible for Mary's absence from John's life.

Beside him, Rose turned her head away. He reached out a hand and ran his knuckle along the smooth skin of her back. She hummed in delight and he longed to brush his lips the full length of her exposed body down to the bunched up sheets about her hips.

He finally said, in reply to John, "Getting in touch with contacts I made during my time abroad."

" _In Paris?_ "

"Yes, in Paris. My chief contact is here. He'll put the word out throughout Europe and Northern Africa which will allow me easy access to areas ordinary people can't get to. For when we need it."

He continued stroking Rose's back, silently willing her to roll over.

" _And you didn't think to tell me?_ "

"I'm telling you now."

" _Before you left. I could've come with you. I should be there._ "

"I have no intention of contacting Mary. And you need to be there. You have your practice, and of course, Rosie."

" _Please don't tell me where my responsibilities lie_."

Sherlock cared little for the implied threat in John's tone. He could almost see John clenching and unclenching a fist as he paced up and down his and Mary's newly renovated kitchen, stopping occasionally to point angrily at the floor.

"I'll be back shortly."

" _When?_ "

That demanding tone again.

"A day or two." _Or three_.

" _Where do you think she's headed?_ "

"Based on her movements so far, I'm concluding her travel plans are entirely random."

" _But she'll exhaust the limit of her_ _aliases_ _, won't she?_ "

"Yes, John."

They knew there were only a finite number of identities Mary could assume. Sherlock had examined the contents of the memory stick with a thoroughness he hadn't admitted to the former intelligence agent. John couldn't help himself either, and had briefly glanced over Sherlock's shoulder, before finally tearing himself away. But with Mary's aliases and the locations of her safe havens stored firmly in his Mind Palace, Sherlock knew they would have to wait patiently for a sign that Mary was slowing in her efforts to keep moving.

Rose rolled over and gazed up at Sherlock. A warmth spread through him as he took in her dishevelled hair, flushed cheeks and the beginnings of a smile on her full, red lips.

" _And you do think this Ajay character is following her?_ "

"Most likely."

Sherlock reached out and drew a strand of hair away from Rose's face. Her smile widened.

" _I should be there_ ," John said again, with a heavy sigh.

"Nothing you can do," Sherlock said smoothly. Rose shuffled closer, pressing herself up against him. "You'll waste time and energy following her. She'll still be on edge and less likely to listen to reason." Rose smoothed a hand over Sherlock's chest, then nibbled at the soft skin behind his ear, sending delicious ripples of pleasure along his central nervous system. "Listen, John. I have to go." He held out his phone a little, then added, "I'm just about to get cut—" He ended the call, then dropped his phone onto the bedside table.

Entirely inappropriate. Listening to John's voice as his physical desires struggled to awaken.

"Completely disrespectful," he said, curving his body into Rose's.

"Me or John?"

His voice dropped a couple of notches when he replied, "You."

He captured Rose's lips with his and brought a hand up, tangling his fingers in her hair. The sheets were twisted around their lower bodies, so Sherlock urgently shoved them aside. Rose twined her legs around his. Drawing all he could from their kiss, he quietly took stock.

He wasn't quite ready yet. They had just finished a rather energetic session almost twenty minutes ago, after which Sherlock had to make a trip to the bathroom. Upon returning, he slid on his underwear, and just as he was easing back into bed, his phone rang.

It was still too soon. He needed a longer recovery period than this. Surely Rose knew that?

Sherlock left off kissing Rose, and instead began nibbling her jawline to give himself time. In response, she pressed herself closer to him, slipped a hand into the back of his underwear, and ground her pelvis into his.

"You're not ready to go yet," she stated.

"Mmm. No."

Sherlock eased back a little, and Rose drew her wandering hand away.

"That's okay," she said, rolling to her side of the bed. "I need the bathroom anyway."

Sherlock was left staring at the ceiling. Should he ring John back? He had no new information to tell him, which would frustrate John even further.

Sherlock leant forward and propped up another pillow behind his head. They were in no hurry today. It was their _day in._ He had no compulsion to repeat yesterday's frantic range of activities. He knew he'd disappointed Rose several times with his declaration that he "didn't queue." That ruled out most of the sightseeing she wanted to undertake. But he had made her happy, in the end, hadn't he?

They stood underneath the Eiffel Tower, with Rose awestruck as she gazed upward. Sherlock had his hands folded neatly behind his back, scanning the crowds from behind his shades, assessing their origins and potential criminal intent. A few pickpockets, a man who had taken his mistress on a little romantic holiday to Paris using company funds, a family of whining children; nobody of any real interest.

"It's a bit disconcerting, isn't it?" Rose whispered, nodding toward one of the many armed soldiers patrolling the base of the tourist attraction. "I mean, what if his AK-whatsit goes off accidentally?"

"FAMAS," Sherlock said, correcting her. "And it's not loaded."

"FAMAS?"

" _F_ _usil d'_ _A_ _ssaut de la_ _M_ _anufacture d'_ _A_ _rmes de_ _S_ _aint-Étienn_ _e._ Assault rifles, and the magazine's in his pock—. What ?"

Rose's eyes had widened and a tiny gasp escaped her.

"Do you speak French?"

One corner of Sherlock's mouth curved into a smile.

" _Oui._ "

Rose let out a chuckle, her eyes bright with interest.

"Really? Say something else."

Eager to oblige and show off his cleverness, Sherlock took a step closer and cleared his throat.

"Je n'éprouve absolument aucun intérêt à regarder cette gigantesque tour antenne-relais en acier. Ni à faire une croisière sur la Seine ou à contempler fixement un nombre indéfinissable de tableaux et de statues au Louvre."

At Rose's stunned expression, he felt emboldened having told her exactly what activities he didn't want to participate in—in his usual blunt style. But he felt warmed by her undivided attention, specifically, the glisten in her eyes that told him of her admiration and respect. Should he tell her what he actually did want?

"Tout ce que je veux c'est te faire rire et sourire..." He paused, a tiny smile spreading across his face at his honest admission. To make her laugh and smile. The feeling came from his heart and his chest swelled with the sudden freedom to go all out. It was like speaking from behind the safety barriers. He reached for Rose's hand and continued in a lower voice. "… et tenir ta main…" With his free hand, he gently placed the flat of his palm over her belly. "Et sentir les coups de notre fille." _Our daughter._ He felt a warmth spread across his cheeks.

His next words should've been easy. He'd said them in English more times than he could count nowadays. But again, this was something he'd never said in French. To anybody.

"Je t'aime…"

Sherlock paused for emphasis, gazing deeply into Rose's eyes, which had darkened considerably. Surely she could understand that?

"…et je veux passer le reste de ma vie avec toi," he gushed. "Juste nous deux."

Dear God, he thought. He'd never admitted that to himself before. Wanting to spend the rest of his life with Rose? Just the two of them? The thought terrified him. How could he think that far into the future? And now he'd breathed life into the admission by speaking it out loud. In French, though. Rose wouldn't have a clue what he had just said. But a life without her was something he'd never contemplate either.

He could feel her steady breath, as if she was straining to hear, to understand.

But it wasn't just the two of them, was it? Sherlock's eyes flicked to Rose's abdomen and he felt the need to correct his last statement.

"Non," he said, with a slight shake of his head. "Nous trois."

_The three of us._

Rose didn't react until it was evident Sherlock had no more to add.

"What… did you say?" she asked faintly, gazing up at him with moist eyes. She wasn't daring to breathe. She must've understood the gist of it, surely.

But Sherlock's throat still felt rough and raw from his admission.

"Something romantic," he rasped, then he gave a light cough to clear his throat.

"So tell me in English."

Sherlock straightened up and released Rose. "Chips," he said. "I'm a bit peckish." He turned, then began strolling away from her. Calling back, he added, "Come on. Let's go and find some chips."

"Sherlock. Wait! That's not what you said." He stopped and turned around. "And aren't we going up?" she asked, pulling up in front of him and pointing to the structure that still loomed above them.

"I don't queue, Rose."

The rest of their exchange was fairly painful, and Sherlock was disappointed it couldn't have been conducted in French. How eloquent the Romance languages were when you were in a spot of bother!

Sherlock finally managed to negotiate. He would at least _share an icecream_ and sit on the lawn in front of the Eiffel Tower. He would pose for a selfie with Rose, not just here, but also on the balcony of their hotel room with the Eiffel Tower in the background at night when it was lit up. Rose would get her guided tour of the Eiffel Tower the day after next, with Justine and Bob. They could take her to the Louvre, if she wanted, or the Musée d'Orsay, or wherever. She could queue to her heart's content at all the things they could readily see on Google images.

"It's not the same," she'd argued.

"Yes, you're right. At least on Google images you don't have other people breathing around you, jostling for a better view, bashing into you with their backpacks and recently purchased selfie sticks."

"Other people breathing bothers you?"

"Yes. You know I prefer dead people, Rose. I wouldn't have any cases, otherwise."

Sherlock was grateful for the time spent doing nothing for a few minutes. But he didn't admit that to Rose. He had begrudgingly taken a seat beside her on the grass, scowled at the passersby, then lay down with his head in her lap when she invited him to. He had the feeling she wanted to stop him muttering his discontent under his breath. He closed his eyes and imagined they were somewhere else. Bit hard. People still made noises.

But Rose carded her fingers through his hair and occasionally fed him icecream. And that wasn't entirely unpleasant.

He heard her phone camera shutter click, and he opened one eye to a squint.

"How many photos are you going to take of us?"

"They're for our daughter," Rose said, reviewing the photo she'd just snapped. " _This is mummy and daddy when we were courting_."

"Courting," Sherlock repeated derisively, filing away the words 'mummy and daddy' for later analysis. "I think our courting days aren't something that should be documented. Imagine if we had actually taken photos back then. Entirely inappropriate."

Sherlock abruptly stopped his rambling. Photos… Photos of Rose… Photos of Rose in compromising positions. Not with him! Rose and _John Garvie_. _Jesus Christ!_ Every single snap Garvie had taken and had stored in his old camera phone slammed into Sherlock's mind. He was sure he'd deleted them permanently from his hard drive. He hoped Rose hadn't noticed his half-grimace.

"Which is why I'm making up a new history for us," she said.

Evidently, she hadn't.

"Mm," Sherlock remarked, closing his eyes again. He needed this conversation to end now.

"It's a pity we didn't take photos that time at the top of Big Ben," Rose continued. "That was so lovely of you to take me there that night. For my birthday." She sighed wistfully, then added in a voice barely above a whisper, "I loved you back then, you know. Even before I told you."

The air around them became stilled, which served to amplify the ambient sounds of the tourists and locals surrounding them. Sherlock braved opening his eyes.

Rose was looking toward the tower, her eyes pooling with tears. She wiped at one with a knuckle, before she looked down and saw Sherlock staring at her. She gave him an embarrassed smile.

"What does it matter now?" she said.

Sherlock swallowed the lump in his throat.

"I…" he began, not really knowing what he was about to say. "I think… I loved you, too." He cleared his throat and added, "Back then. Didn't understand the emotion. Would never have admitted it anyway."

Rose huffed a laugh, before she reached out and ran her fingers through his hair again. She bent forward a little, then stopped, her eyes sparkling in amusement.

"I can't actually move any closer," she said with a laugh. "This is as far as my belly will let me go."

"Thank Christ for that!" Sherlock exclaimed in mock annoyance. "Were you going to kiss me in public? I do have a reputation to maintain."

"Oh, get off me, you horrid man."

The time for leisure had ended. Rose set a breakneck pace wanting to check out a few other things. A stroll along the Champs-Élysées for one. It seemed the day in the future Sherlock had enticed her with—her day out with the Wilsons—wasn't enough to get her to slow down today. She wanted to experience a myriad of places _with Sherlock._

Finally, they returned to their hotel. Sherlock kicked off his shoes and flopped onto the sofa. It wasn't because his feet ached, or his legs felt heavy—quite the contrary. The Consulting Detective from London was quite used to covering miles on foot in pursuit of some clue or suspect or losing his brother's spies. The good old days! But his mind was weary. This wasn't how _he_ had ever experienced Paris. And he'd been here quite a few times over the years.

They ate in, made love, and posed for a selfie on the balcony. Fortunately, Rose kept to her word that they'd spend the next day lolling about their hotel room.

"I suppose we should make the most of it," Rose had remarked. "I expect you paid an arm and a leg for it."

Yes, he had. And quite a bit of torso, too.

As Sherlock lay flat on the bed, staring at the ceiling, wondering if another erection would make an appearance any time soon, Rose returned from the bathroom, with the hotel-issued bathrobe loosely hanging from her shoulders. She gazed down at him, a look of amusement on her face.

Dragging his eyes from her face to her exposed curves, Sherlock felt a stirring.

"If you want to do anything naughty, I'm just about ready," he said. "Visual stimulation," he announced, smiling proudly.

"Oh," Rose said, clutching the robe closed and taking a seat on the edge of the bed beside him. She smoothed the flat of her palm over his chest and tilted her head as if thinking about something.

"What?"

"Well.. I just thought you should ring John back." After Sherlock exhaled noisily, Rose continued. "I think he really needs you. Why don't you ring him while I organise lunch? It's probably in poor taste you telling him you're in Paris to organise contacts and things, when all you're really doing is having sex with your secret girlfriend. He's so worried about Mary."

Sherlock's erection remained at half-mast, as if there was some kind of mechanical fault.

"No, I really do have people to contact who will help ease our way into inaccessible places," he told Rose. "Now, can we please—"

"Wait. So, this trip wasn't just about a romantic getaway to Paris?"

"Not… exclusively."

"You had other plans all along?"

"Look, Rose," Sherlock said, sighing in exasperation. "If you wanted a trip to Rome, I have contacts there. If you fancied skiing in the Alps: again, contacts. I would've got in touch with somebody, somewhere. In London, I make my needs known via my homeless network. This is an international case. You'll hardly notice me going about my business. One of the truly remarkable things about me, Rose, is my ability to multi-task."

"Is it?"

"For example. I bet I could organise lunch and give you an orgasm at the same time."

Rose's eyes widened and she studied Sherlock's face for a moment, perhaps searching for the truth and conviction behind his words. Of course he could do this. He'd become quite adept at texting while not looking at his phone's screen. And it wasn't his fingers he needed to use to pleasure Rose. Child's play really!

He watched her for signs of annoyance or ridicule, but her eyes were bright with enthusiasm and she began to giggle. Should he take this response as consent?

"In a moment, perhaps," she said, quelling her laughter. She reached for him and lightly cupped her hand to his cheek. She pressed light kisses to his lips, then whispered, "Je t'aime…"

Rose drew back and Sherlock smiled broadly in acknowledgement. So she _had_ understood, at least that phrase. And why not? It was probably universally recognised. However, his smile faltered when Rose continued with, "Et je veux passer le reste de ma vie avec toi, aussi. Juste nous trois."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to chatonjoli over at fanfiction.net for the French translation.
> 
> Here is the translation into English of Sherlock's little French declaration to Rose:
> 
> "I have absolutely no interest in looking at this gigantic wrought iron mobile phone tower. Nor do I want to take a cruise along the Seine or stare at an unending number of portraits and statues at the Louvre… All I want is to make you laugh and smile… hold your hand, and…feel our daughter kick… I love you… And I want to spend the rest of my life with you. Just the two of us…No… The three of us."
> 
> And, of course, Rose echoes his words to him, "I love you. And I want to spend the rest of my life with you, too. Just the three of us."


	88. Fine and Normal Are Relative Terms

Rose stared at Sherlock in disbelief.

"You're what?"

But as he began his lengthy explanation about how difficult it was to predict where Mary Watson was going to be on any given day, Rose slowly turned her back on him, folding her arms in front of her as she drew closer to the windows and away from him.

He was leaving her. For Marrakech. In two hours.

And she'd just arrived here. London. Finally together again after being apart for so long.

"…and the direction she's heading," Sherlock was saying, talking a mile a minute, "can only be towards Marrakech. She's leaving Algeria. Morocco was the only other North African destination she had on the memory stick, apart from Algiers. We've got a chance, Rose. All the other…"

His voice faded into the background. She'd heard this once before. She knew it was important—escorting Mary home. They had to get the timing just right—arriving at whatever address Mary had documented as a safe house, for whichever location they thought she was headed to, and they had to get there before Mary did.

The last time Sherlock had left to pursue Mary, approximately one month after their trip to Paris, he was in Edinburgh. He'd only just arrived. They had spent  _one day_ together, before Sherlock received word that Mary was travelling across Iran. Later, via phone from London, he told Rose he and John had ended up waiting at a four hundred year old fortress, along the Silk Road, in the Dasht-e Kavir, Iran's central desert. When they finally got through to Craig via a satellite phone, he'd told them Mary had doubled back to Qom. The bus that had taken them there was only returning to Tehran, so they couldn't pursue Mary from where they were positioned.

Because of the failure of that trip, Sherlock hadn't wanted to leave London again.

To his credit, he phoned her almost every night. And to Rose's embarrassment and regret, some of those calls were emotionally charged on her part. She knew he was being very patient with her, never wanting to reach the end of the night not having made peace. He would ring her back half a dozen times if she had abruptly hung up on him in tears. He didn't give up until she answered. He always spoke so warmly and tenderly. She felt ashamed. And Rose would be okay again for the better part of a week, chatting to him about the cases he had in between, while telling him about her studies, her friends, and what Bob and Justine were up to. The evenings were always the worst, where she felt especially bereft, and sometimes something external would set her off. And there was an endless supply of things to upset her.

The hot water shut off one morning; on another day, one of the window frames had warped and splintered and the rain dripped in; the smoke alarm beeped randomly; she banged her finger when closing the  _fucking stupid kitchen drawer_ ; she'd sent Bob and Justine away for the weekend because she wanted to be alone and then a fuse tripped and she couldn't figure out what had overloaded the circuit.

"But it doesn't matter because I called Ade."

She hated herself for complaining to him, and for that time specifically, telling Sherlock she'd contacted Adrian. There was a full three seconds of silence before Sherlock remarked, "I'm glad it's all sorted then."

Should she have told him she only wanted to quiz Ade about her dad? Not that he could tell her anything positive about him on each occasion she'd spoken to him. They'd had coffee a couple of times during Sherlock's absence. Ade's response was always the same. Her dad was keeping busy in the garden.

During one particularly teary skype call, Sherlock had shouted at her—the only time he had lost his patience with her irrational mood swings.

" _Don't hang up on me!_ "

She froze at the ferocity of his command, but he quickly recomposed himself. He leant closer and spoke directly into his laptop's camera.

"Rose… just… just listen to me for a minute. I know you're stressed. I know you have an important essay due tomorrow, and I know you're upset I wasn't there for the... baby shower. But I want you to hear me out. All of it, without interrupting."

Rose's tears that night remained pooled but unshed while he spoke.

"You've only got three weeks left of your course. Now, we agreed you'd finish up after that. No more studying or late nights spent counselling. You'll be thirty-two weeks by then. So when I said, 'Come to London,' I didn't mean just for the weekend. I want you to live here. For a bit. I've been looking for a flat, and I think I've found one in a quiet area, lots of parkland. It's secure. I think you know the area. It's only fifteen minutes by foot from Baker Street."

He had braved a tiny smile, and she couldn't help but give him a feeble one in return, unable to respond verbally.

"You can have the baby here, in London, and I'll be with you," he went on. "And after our baby's born, we can be together, as a... as a... family. I'll be there. I'll be in and out, but I'll be there. Here. With you. London makes this possible, Rose. And when you're ready to go back to studying in a few months' time or a year or whenever, you can go back to Edinburgh... or stay here. Whatever you want to do. We'll cross that bridge when we come to it. Just don't just dismiss this out of hand. Think about it."

Rose composed herself long enough to tell him she would honestly think about it; it had taken her a day. The answer was simple, really. She knew, in her heart, what she had to do.

She'd kept it together—mostly—for three weeks while finishing her studies in Scotland. She felt as if she'd been holding her breath the entire time. Her friends threw her a farewell dinner, then she spent one Saturday packing her belongings. The furniture was to stay. It was still their home, after all. She left for London early on a Sunday morning, accompanied by the Wilsons.

"Rose."

She didn't respond. How to get through one more hiccup without losing it? Without snapping at him, or dissolving into a sobbing mess?

Suddenly he was there, arms banding around her, embracing her from behind.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, nuzzling into her neck. "We won't be long. I promise. There and back. Two or three nights at the most."

Tension left her body in waves. His physical connection warmed her. This was what was missing during their tense skype calls. She leant back into him, and inhaled his cologne.

"It's rubbish timing," he added.

"No," Rose croaked. "I'm sorry. I'm behaving selfishly again."

Sherlock tightened his hold.

"No, you're not. You've been very patient with me." He gently turned Rose around to face him. "We'll get this right, one day," he added. "I'll be back before you know it, and then you'll be kicking me out the door, sick of the sight of me."

Like that could ever happen, she thought.

"I love you," she whispered.

Sherlock bowed his head, until his forehead touched hers.

"I love you, too." He held her in his arms for a moment, before he said, "Can we start again?"

Rose slowly nodded her acquiescence.

"Hello, Rose," Sherlock said. "Welcome back."

* * *

"Not 'ammo' as in 'ammunition' but 'amo' meaning…"

His brother was silent for a moment, before replying, "You'd better be right, Sherlock."

Sherlock ended the call, hoping for the same, otherwise Mycroft was going to be in a spot of bother with Lady Smallwood. But it  _had_ to be her. The codename fit.

He left the room for the terrace overlooking the courtyard, escaping the stifling heat. He had one more phone call to make, before joining John and Mary in the medina.

"Hello."

She sounded tired.

"How are you?" he asked.

"I'm fine," Rose replied. "I'm having dinner with Billy."

Sherlock's heart twinged with an ache he didn't know how to alleviate. He was glad Rose was occupied and in the company of a good friend. Seeing John and Mary together—the pained expression on John's face—made him realise just how difficult it was when their two worlds collided. Domesticity and gun play were not the best bedfellows, at least in the Watson household. Was he wrong to have asked Rose to London?

"…and he says 'hello', by the way," Rose added, with a hint of laughter in her voice. "And how are you? How's Mary? Did you find her?"

Sherlock cleared his throat.

"All fine here," he said. "We'll be back in the morning…"

"Oh, good."

"But I have a meeting first thing," he swiftly added. "Government busybodies. You know how it is. Tying up loose ends."

He tried to sound casual, but his insides twisted. If this betrayal of Mary and the rest of the AGRA freelance agents originated from the higher echelons of government, would she ever truly be safe? But he was on the case, wasn't he? It was his responsibility, as always, to keep those he cared about safe from harm. He had to be a witness to Mycroft's interrogation of Lady Smallwood.

"Well, I'll see you when you get here," Rose said, her voice light and pleasant. "Justine and I are going shopping for cots tomorrow… finally!"

A smile tugged at one corner of Sherlock's mouth at Rose's enthusiasm. It was a welcome relief from the tension of the past few hours. He knew she'd been baulking at buying furniture to fit out the nursery while in Edinburgh. Perhaps that had been a good thing, since she'd now moved to London.

"…thinking of a cot bed, because it'll convert to a junior bed when she's older…"

Sherlock let Rose's words wash over him. Their life together seemed half a world away. At the other end of the terrace, hotel staff were setting tables for dinner. Before he'd left for Morocco, he and Rose had snuggled together on the tiny two-seater in the sitting room of her new residence in St George's Fields and Rose had brought up the subject of baby names.

"I've thought of a girl's name, but we need to come up with a boy's name, too, just in case," she'd said.

"Highly unnecessary."

"I know what you saw, but there's always a chance that—"

"No chance, Rose."

"Well, it won't hurt to—"

"Tell me what you've got."

She studied his eyes and then clasped his hand.

"Can I just start by saying that this name was my grandmother's name?"

"Can you just start?" he said, his eyes glistening with warmth. "No, you may not begin with a preamble. Tell me the name."

"My mother's mother," Rose said defiantly. Sherlock sighed in mock irritation. "And I have the feeling she was the black sheep of the family… well, apart from me. Which is why I feel connected to her."

"And?"

"There must've been something scandalous around the time my mother was born. I mean, she was born in Scotland, but they moved to England shortly afterwards. And if there was a scandal, then I feel for her. My grandmother, I mean."

"And her name was?"

"And I also want to say…" Rose smiled sheepishly at Sherlock's eye roll. "I know this was the name of one of your girlfriends."

"I've never had a girlfriend."

"I know, but… she was somebody special. Your first kiss, or something, so…"

Sherlock had knitted his brows together.

"How do you know this?"

"Don't you remember?"

"Remember what?" His first kiss was some obscure memory from a bygone era. When would he ever have been in a position to tell Rose about that?

"When we were stoned that time. And hiding underneath the blanket in the armchair."

Sherlock's mouth had fallen open a little and a flush crept across his cheeks. Had he told her about…

"Grace," Rose said tentatively.

"Grace."

She smiled broadly and waited for his reaction. All he could do was shrug lightly.

"I don't want it to be weird," Rose said, "as if our daughter's named after your old girlfriend."

"It won't be any more weird than John naming his daughter after my  _actual_  old girlfriend. That's you, by the way. Well… you were at the time. And no, since Rosie isn't named after you, it's not weird at all. And anyway," he said, squeezing Rose's hand. "If our daughter's named after your grandmother—who sounds awesome, if she was anything like you—that's perfectly fine with me."

Rose had slipped her arms around Sherlock's neck and had kissed his cheek.

"And now for a boy's name…" she whispered.

Sherlock smiled to himself at the memory. The hotel staff bustled about him, so he moved to the far corner of the terrace. Through the phone, Rose was still describing nursery furniture to him in-depth. He thought she was talking about a change table that converted into a chest of drawers. Wonders would never cease.

"… and it's all white, so it's suitable for a boy or a girl. I think it should go with the polished floorboards, but we can buy a rug, too."

"Sounds…fine."

They were silent for a moment and Sherlock looked about him noting that the nearest staff member was now out of earshot. Hearing Rose speak so enthusiastically about something in their future, when John and Mary were having a difficult time of it, made his chest swell. The emotion had bubbled from within, and he found he had to let it out.

"I love you," he said in a low voice, but a feeling of unease still settled in. He kicked himself for bringing down the mood.

Rose didn't immediately reply, and he wondered if she sensed his anxiety. She was always so perceptive when it came to his emotions.

But anxiety? Is that what this was?

"I love you, too." She seemed to whisper it, and then Sherlock realised she would've still been in Billy's company.

"Look, Rose. I have to go. John and Mary are probably waiting for me in the marketplace. Things are a bit… awkward between them. Stuff to sort out… but I'm sure they'll welcome me as a brief distraction."

"You could never be just a  _brief_  distraction."

He huffed a small laugh, grateful that Rose's spirits had returned to normal. They said their goodbyes, and Sherlock left the terrace for his room. He removed his jacket and folded it over his arm, as it tended to get quite warm in the souks, but quite cool when the sun disappeared. He'd stayed in Marrakech briefly during his two year stint abroad and was quite familiar with the area. He and Mary had discussed the best café to go to, with rooftop views of the hustle and bustle that was the  _Jemaa el Fna_.

With his sleeves rolled up and having discarded his watch, Sherlock left the riad and confidently found his own way through the narrow streets of the medina. He waved away any offers of help, replying in fluent Arabic that he knew the way to the souk, thank you very much.

He found Mary and John upstairs at  _Le Grand Balcon du Café Glacier_. John visibly relaxed when Sherlock approached and Mary gave him a relieved smile.

"What did I miss?" Sherlock said, nodding his head toward the square.

"The setting sun," John said, sighing heavily, before taking one last swig of his coffee. He got to his feet and said, "Little boys' room," by way of an explanation.

They watched him go, then Sherlock ordered himself a drink—a mint tea, at Mary's suggestion, not that he had any intention of drinking it after critically eyeing the handful of mint leaves in Mary's.

"How is he?" Sherlock said, tipping his head in the direction John had disappeared.

"He's fine," Mary replied with a rueful smile. "We're back to normal, which means we're barely talking to each other."

Sherlock leant forward on his elbows and said, "I'm sorry about Ajay."

Mary sighed and directed her gaze towards the square.

"I want to find out who betrayed you," Sherlock said, immediately recapturing Mary's attention.

"Yes, I thought you wouldn't let this go."

"How could I?"

"I don't want you to pursue this, Sherlock. It's not your job. These are people I don't want you to mess with. Leave it with me."

"Mary, I can't do that. My vow—"

"Should be directed towards your own family now."

"My—?"

"Rose. And your baby."

Rose's name sounded oddly out of context coming from Mary in this setting. It was his turn to stare out onto the souk, with its stall vendors and tourists conducting their obligatory ritual of bartering, while he gathered his thoughts. Mary reached out a hand and gently placed it on his arm.

"Why didn't you tell us?"

"I did."

"When?"

Sherlock quirked a sly smile.

"I told you about my secret pregnant girlfriend in the North. I was going to take Rosie to meet her."

Mary gaped before snorting out a laugh, prompting Sherlock to chuckle along with her. It was good to see Mary less tense. She had lost quite a few pounds over the last couple of months, with her normally pale complexion sun-hardened from her trek across Europe.

"No, but seriously," she said, after she'd recomposed herself. Her eyes were glistening with interest, reminding Sherlock that he could always count on Mary's support and discretion. Why hadn't he confided in her earlier?

"The timing just seemed off. There was always… something happening."

"Like now, you mean?" Mary offered.

Sherlock inhaled deeply. His eyes flicked towards the corridor leading to the bathrooms.

"Do you think I should tell him now?"

"Definitely not."

At that moment, John emerged from the facilities.

"Well, if you're sure," Sherlock said, reaching for the tea that had been placed in front of him earlier. He took a sip and grimaced.

John sank back into the wrought iron seat, the weight of the world still on his shoulders.

"You missed the snake charmer," Sherlock said, smiling pleasantly at John.

"I'm sure there's half a dozen more about the place."

They all took that moment to cast their eyes over the spectacle down below. The sun had well and truly set by now, and the market square glowed in the light of hundreds of gas lanterns.

"Should we order?" John asked, breaking the silence.

The trio lifted their individual menus. Sherlock knew that they, like him, had no appetite. But still, they all scanned the food offerings as if their lives depended on it. Finally they ordered vegie couscous and a vegie tagine, plus a few vegie kofta skewers. Sherlock was appalled by the lack of meat, so he hastily ordered a couple of beef skewers with chips on the side as well.

With the food in front of them and the entertainment in the square providing a distraction, they didn't have to talk about anything more serious than Mrs Hudson's trip to Corfu with Mr Chatterjee and whether or not the acrobats performing below were going to topple over.

Leaning back in his chair and feeling sickeningly full, Sherlock remarked, "I once was involved in a motorbike chase around this square. Almost collided with a donkey."

Mary chuckled and stared thoughtfully at the blackened sky.

"Me, too," she said, distractedly, prompting a deep rumble of a laugh from Sherlock.

She suddenly turned to face him.

"Hang on," she said, her brow furrowed. "When was this?"

"While I was breaking up Moriarty's network. The end of winter, 2013."

"Ah, see," John said pointedly, "You were with me in London during that time, so I don't think Sherlock was chasing you."

"No. I was the one being chased," Sherlock said. "And Mary may have been living a secret double life," he added with a sly smile.

A tiny laugh escaped Mary, but John looked away awkwardly and coughed. Perhaps it was too soon to be joking about his wife's former life, Sherlock thought. But why was his friend tugging at his collar as if  _he_ had something to feel guilty about?

John suddenly rose and stretched his arms a bit.

"Well, I think I have to walk this off before I turn in."

"Yes. Good idea," Mary said, hastily rising.

"No, no, you stay," John said, vaguely indicating the table. "I'm knackered. Why don't you… buy something for Rosie?" He nodded toward the bustling square, before turning from them.

Mary watched his departure, a mixture of hurt and bewilderment crossing her face. She quickly recomposed herself and gave Sherlock a weak smile.

"S'pose I should," she said, as Sherlock left his seat and slowly pulled on his jacket. "Make up for abandoning her, not that she would've noticed."

Sherlock gave Mary a reassuring smile.

"Something for Rosie, then."

As they exited the café, Mary turned to Sherlock and said, "You have someone else to buy for now, not just your God-daughter. You've got Rose… and your ba—"

"My daughter."

As Mary's eyes moistened, Sherlock felt a sudden swell of pride having said the word out loud.

"Oh, Sherlock," she said, reaching for his arm. Giving it an affectionate rub, she said, "You're having a baby girl, too."

Sherlock beamed at Mary, unable to speak, because his own awe was reflected in Mary's eyes.

"Oh, God," she said. "Another Holmes and Watson. Girls. God help us."

Sherlock was about to laugh, but Mary's face seemed to crumble. She turned away from him, and gently sobbed into her hand.

"Mary?"

"No." She shook her head.

Sherlock didn't know what to do at first. He'd never seen Mary look so defeated. Even in his bolt hole, before her flight to Europe, she had only shown a brief moment of uncertainty.

"I'm such a… horrible mother," she said, sniffling.

Sherlock gently took Mary by her shoulders.

"No, you're not," he said firmly. "Look at what you've done here. You've taken the danger away from your family. You've sacrificed being with her for her own safety. This is what we do, Mary. You and I. We do what we can for the people we love. We make the sacrifices."

"No," Mary said. "I sometimes think John would've been better off without me."

"You're wrong there. I happen to know John Watson, and he was rubbish without you."

Mary sobbed out a laugh, then wiped her nose with the back of her hand. Sherlock waited a moment while she composed herself.

"Come on," Sherlock said eventually, turning from Mary and offering his arm. "Let's go and buy our girls something atrocious."

.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for not putting the French translation to English on the previous chapter at the last update. It's there now, if you're interested.


	89. Let's Talk About Mary First

Rose felt Sherlock slip into bed behind her in the early hours of the morning. She sighed against him and fell back asleep.

When sunlight peeked through the window slits, she was relieved to find him still in bed. She snuggled closer to him, pressing up against his back, before slipping her hands underneath his pyjama shirt and caressing his torso. Sherlock hummed in satisfaction, but didn't move. Rose wasn't sure whether to continue, or if Sherlock needed his sleep. She didn't know how long into the night he had been working, nor how much sleep he had received abroad.

His landlady was in Corfu until Saturday, Sherlock had told her, so it was fine for Rose to enter the flat by herself. She'd journeyed by tube, with Bob as her escort. He'd seen her safely to Baker Street before saying goodnight. The journey by day wouldn't have required protection, but after 11pm, the Wilsons insisted Rose not travel alone. And entering Sherlock's Baker Street residence wasn't an option for her during the day.

Rose hadn't seen Sherlock since his return from Morocco. After visiting a government office, he said he needed to see Craig, his hacker, and they'd be working late into the night. Rose thought she'd ease his burden with the suggestion she spend the night in his flat, an offer which had surprised him.

"No, keep doing that," he murmured after Rose withdrew her hand.

His body was so warm that Rose curled herself around him as she continued to smooth the flat of her palm across his chest and stomach. She breathed in his familiar cologne and soap and felt content for the first time in ages. Sherlock rumbled a laugh she initially felt before she heard.

"What?" she asked.

"I felt that."

"Felt what?"

"A kick."

Rose moved aside, allowing Sherlock to turn over.

"Lie back," he said, gently easing Rose's sleeping t-shirt upwards.

They waited, Rose intermittently holding her breath while Sherlock—his hair tousled from sleep—smoothed his hand over her belly, searching for the best spot.

"Oh!" Rose exclaimed.

Sherlock chuckled. He'd felt it! Bending low over her abdomen, he murmured something she didn't catch, then pressed a soft kiss to her bare skin.

"What did you say?" she asked.

"I wasn't talking to you."

He looked up at her with bright, keen eyes, his mouth stretching into a smile. Her heart melted to see him looking so happy and relaxed in her company. _Their_ company.

Sherlock drew up beside her, planted a soft kiss on her lips, and said, "Hello, Rose."

She wasn't ready to let him get away with such a quick salutation. Not now that she was in his bed again. She pulled him closer, discarding the need to verbally return his greeting, and instead, captured his lips with hers. He tasted the same as he always did with a hint of tobacco. So, he hadn't really quit smoking. His lips had already parted as if in invitation and he took care to deepen the kiss she had started, drawing out her desires with clever and tender skill.

But before Rose had received exactly what she wanted, Sherlock eased out of their kiss.

"I have to go," he said, hovering over her, before leaving the bed completely.

"What?" Rose said, breathlessly. She looked up at him, a quiet panic filling her heart.

"Craig," Sherlock said, tugging his pyjama shirt over his head and turning from Rose. "I left him running a programme that'll search the message logs from six years ago on anything relating to AGRA." He had tossed his t-shirt onto a chair, and was rounding the bed as he spoke, making his way to his dresser. "He has to keep changing his method of access so his attempts can remain undetected."

Rose's brow wrinkled as she watched Sherlock tug open the top drawer and retrieve a pair of boxer trunks.

"Why can't you ring him for an update?" she asked.

"Surveillance. GCHQ or whoever. You never know who may be listening."

Sherlock finished dressing in silence as Rose slid deeper underneath the covers and pouted.

"Are you going to stay in bed all morning?" he said, a few minutes later, fully dressed and looming over her.

"I'll attempt to," she said.

Sherlock chuckled a deep rumbling laugh before pressing a quick kiss to Rose's forehead. She sank fully underneath the covers, listened for the door clicking shut, and exhaled in heavy disappointment.

* * *

Rose jumped a little, her breath catching in her throat. She didn't know what to do about the sharp raps on the living room door. And the unexpected visitor had tried the door knob. Should she pretend she wasn't in? But surely they could only have been made by someone who had access to enter 221 from the street.

"Sherlock?" called a voice from out on the landing.

_Wait. Was that…?_

A baby started a hiccupping cry almost immediately.

"It's all right," Rose heard the familiar female voice coo.

_It is. It's… Mary._

"Sherlock!" Mary called again as she knocked on the door a few more times.

Rose's skin prickled and she strained to hear if there were any other voices apart from Mary's over the baby's cry.

"Sorry, darling," Mary said softly.

Rose left her tea preparation and stood at the kitchen door to the landing, listening. She readjusted her dressing gown and sighed at her indecisive behaviour.

 _I'm pretty sure there's no one else out there_.

After Rose unlocked the door and opened it, Mary twisted around, her face lighting up.

"Well, that explains the locked doors," she said as she approached Rose.

"Hi," Rose said, forcing a smile to her face.

Her heart heaved at the sight of Rosie and her tear-stained face, nestled in Mary's arms.

"I thought Sherlock was dissecting something Mrs Hudson wouldn't approve of," Mary said with a rueful smile.

"No, it's just that I… Please, come in." Rose opened the door wider, stepping aside to allow Mary to enter. "Sherlock isn't here."

Mary tutted and visibly drooped as she crossed the threshold. Rosie continued with her protesting.

"Dammit. Molly's at work this morning. Mrs Hudson's abroad. John's out, finally, and I just need to do something while he's not home, but I can't when Rosie's like this. She's… teething." Mary paused to gently rub her daughter's back as she fixed her with a sympathetic smile. "She's only sleeping for a few minutes at a time unless I continually rock her. Will Sherlock be long?"

"Ah… he shouldn't be," Rose said, closing the door behind them. "I was…" She waved a hand toward the bedroom at the back of the kitchen. "I… slept in. A bit. He could be back any minute now, but you know Sherlock. Do you want me to ring him?"

"No, no. Not if he's busy."

Mary continued on into the living area, holding Rosie over her shoulder and alternately patting and rubbing her back.

Rose crossed the kitchen and regarded the pair for a moment. Although she and Mary had socialised together over coffee a few times last year, the revelation that the wife and mother of one was actually a highly-skilled assassin and had put a bullet through Sherlock only served to put Rose on edge.

"Could… I get you a cup of tea?" Rose asked.

Mary seemed to contemplate her answer for a few seconds before replying with a weary, "Yes. Thanks. That would be lovely. I may as well forget about my plans for the moment."

Rose turned from her and flicked the switch on the kettle again. She wondered what Mary's plans were and why she had to carry them out in John's absence. But who knew why retired assassins did anything. As she retrieved a second cup from the overhead cupboard, Rose considered Mary's situation. This was a familiar scenario, though. There were many times Rose was a witness to single mothers and their dilemma about what to do with their infants when they had to work or attend a counselling session or just find time for themselves to have a quiet cuppa.

Mary continued patting and soothing her irritable daughter.

"You know what?" Rose began. "I could just…"

"What?" Mary asked. A little too eagerly, Rose thought. As if she already knew what Rose was going to offer.

"I could look after her… until Sherlock gets back."

"Could you?"

"And I'm sure he's not too far away," she added with a brief smile.

"Oh, Rose. That would be…"

"It's no problem at all. I'm not doing anything else this morning and… I've looked after a few babies, now and again."

One baby, specifically—dear, sweet Jack—who had been abandoned so many times by his drugged-out, prostitute mother. But who was Rose to judge?

"I won't need long," Mary said, approaching Rose. "Honestly. An hour at the most."

"We'll be fine." Rose reached for Sherlock's goddaughter. "Hello," she said, looking down and holding the infant to her side. "I've heard a lot about you."

"Really, Rose. I appreciate this more than I can say."

Mary lightly touched Rose's arm, before turning from her and quickly scanning the room. Rose could detect a sense of urgency about her.

"Oh, the landing," Mary muttered.

Rose watched as Mary strode through to the kitchen.

"I've got a bottle for her," she called out as she entered the stairwell.

In Rose's arms, Rosie hiccupped a protest again.

"Shh," Rose said gently, holding the baby close.

Mary called out that she was putting the bottle in the fridge and that Rosie probably didn't need it, but it was there just in case.

"She'll be fine," Rose said. To Rosie, she added, "You just need a nap, don't you?"

Mary strode back through to the living room and dropped the nappy bag at the foot of Rose's armchair. She heaved a deep sigh as she did so, and Rose wondered if she was telling herself to slow down.

"Bye, darling," Mary said to Rosie, bending a little to fix a kiss on top of her daughter's head. Then she mouthed a 'thank you' to Rose, before swiftly leaving the flat.

Rose was surprised to feel the tension leaving her body, even though she had a fussing baby in her arms. It should've come as no surprise, she thought, that being in the company of Mary would cause her a certain degree of discomfort and stress; the woman had not only almost fatally wounded her boyfriend, but had also pointed a gun at her.

"Let's get you changed, first," she said to Rosie.

She tried a few things—a fresh nappy, gently rocking the baby girl in the kitchen—before finally settling on the bottle. When she found Rosie sleepily content, she took to holding her over one shoulder and slowly swaying in Sherlock's bedroom, where she could make the room quite dark. But Rosie still fussed intermittently.

"No, that won't do," came a deep, velvety voice from the doorway.

Rose took a sharp intake of breath, and upon turning, found Sherlock casually leaning against the doorframe.

"Oh, God, Sherlock," Rose said in a voice barely above a whisper. "I didn't hear you come in."

He smiled broadly at her, then left his post.

"When all evidence pointed to the presence of our young visitor here, I decided to proceed in a stealth-like manner along the passageway. Hello, Rosie." Sherlock bent over Rose's shoulder and planted a kiss on top of the infant's head.

"Of course you did."

"And hello, Rose," he said with equal affection, before planting a swift kiss on Rose's cheek.

Sherlock shed his jacket, and said, "It's fairly obvious what she needs."

"What?"

He grabbed his dressing gown from the chair along the wall and announced, "Me."

"I've nearly got her to sleep."

"Nope," he said, pulling on his gown. "That's not going to last long."

"We're fine here, Sherlock."

As if on cue, Rosie drew her legs up and emitted a discontented squawk.

"There. You see? Tummy ache and teething. Hand her over."

"Your voice woke her up."

"Nonsense. She likes to hear me think out loud. She can hear her godfather's voice, but you're holding her incorrectly. In her mind, nothing is right with the world. Hand over the baby, Rose. We've got work to do."

Although she knew she almost had Rosie asleep, the muscles in Rose's neck and shoulder had been protesting for the last half hour or so. She gently passed the infant to Sherlock.

"What do you mean, 'we'?"

"Rosie and I," he replied, before swishing out of the room, his dressing gown billowing in his wake. "Why don't you finish making that tea you started," he called back, "approximately forty minutes ago, going by the external temperature of the kettle."

Rose sighed and exited the bedroom, gently massaging her shoulder on the way to the kitchen. She wondered if this was what their life would be like once they were parents—Sherlock swooping in to save the day, with obvious solutions to whatever ailed their child. The curious thing was, Sherlock didn't even ask why Rosie had been left in Rose's care. Perhaps Mary had already contacted him.

The next half an hour was spent with Rose quietly sipping her tea in her chair by the fire, reading "Psychology Today" articles on her iPad. She even had time to finally change out of her sleepwear. Now and again, she'd watch Sherlock pace up and down the rug with Rosie over his shoulder. She'd look up when he muttered things, such as "Mycroft's certain it wasn't Lady Smallwood," and "How did they know her codename?" Rose even bit back a laugh when Rosie squawked and Sherlock replied with, "Yes, I know. It doesn't make any sense."

Rose knew he wasn't talking to her, as he hadn't demanded she pay him any attention when she had her eyes fixed on her screen. But was he really using his goddaughter as a sounding board?

"The orders given to the intelligence agents were never recorded," he said, standing stock still with his back to Rose. "They're too top secret, as is all communication from within that level of government. My meeting with them wasn't even minuted. I'm clearly missing something."

"She's asleep," Rose said, observing baby Rosie over Sherlock's shoulder.

"Oh. Good," he said. "I need to think."

"Do you want me to take her?" Rose said, getting to her feet.

"No. You'll only wake her."

Sherlock took Rosie to the sofa and proceeded to settle himself down on it.

"I need to go deep," he said. "But not… that deep."

Rose approached him in case he needed help repositioning Rosie.

"Are you sure you don't want me to take her?"

"We're fine, Rose. This is how we solved the mystery of the missing bassoon player."

"By sleeping?"

"Not sleeping. I'm delving into my Mind Palace. I'm sure I've missed something."

If he was capable of solving crimes by 'not sleeping', then Sherlock Holmes would've solved not only the Jack the Ripper murders, but also the mysterious abandonment of the _Mary Celeste_ , Rose thought, judging by his 'not sleeping' snores. He really didn't get enough sleep the night before, she concluded.

She left them alone while she continued to read, intermittently looking up in interest whenever Rosie coughed the beginnings of a cry and Sherlock's hand would automatically pat the infant's back a couple of times. This method appeared to work well for almost an hour before Mary eased open the living room door. She spied Rose and gestured for her to stay quiet. With a tilt of her head, Mary indicated the kitchen.

Rose followed Mary to the passageway at the back of the flat. Stopping outside the bathroom, Mary said, in a low voice, "I really need a favour from you… well, another favour."

"Oh… okay."

"Don't say yes, until you've heard what I want. I could ask Mrs Hudson or Molly, but you've been a bit distant from me… yes, I've noticed, Rose. And it's okay. I think it's even better this way. Perhaps you won't have an emotional response to what I'm asking of you."

Rose felt herself flush. Of course Mary had noticed Rose's discomfort in her presence. The woman was as sharp-eyed as Sherlock.

"I'm sorry," Rose said. "It's just…"

"It's fine, Rose. Really. I shot Sherlock. I know that sends all kinds of messages about what type of person I am. But I had good reason."

"I know about your reasons. I'd like to know if you're sorry."

The words were out of Rose's mouth before she thought to censor them. Clearly Mary had something else on her mind at the moment, other than have Rose dredge up the (recent) past. But Rose didn't want to let this go. If there was an opportunity for clearing the air between them, now was it— _before_ she consented to doing any more favours for Mary.

Mary appeared momentarily thrown by Rose's remark and she gaped a little before her features softened.

"I… am. I truly am."

"Have you apologised to Sherlock?"

Mary had to consider her response. Rose offered no apologies of her own for her question and her gaze remained fixed on Mary.

"No. I don't believe I have. Not in so many words." Mary gave Rose a sheepish smile. "Not in any words, actually. I think I apologised just after I pulled the trigger. I doubt he really registered it at the time."

Mary's light-hearted remark had no effect on Rose. Mary, on the other hand, grew serious.

"Yes. Yes, I will," she said, finally. "I'll tell Sherlock I'm sorry. I can see it's important to you."

"No. It's important to you and Sherlock. And your friendship," Rose said. "Look, I know Sherlock has these experiences and he just moves on to the next thing, never considering the consequences of his actions, or anyone else's, for that matter. I'd like him to pause now and again. I'd like him to know that shooting somebody you care about is not a normal occurrence. And being unapologetic about it…"

Rose hadn't admitted her concerns to anyone before. But quite often, in the past, she felt there would come a day when all of Sherlock's horrific experiences would come crashing down around him. And that wasn't limited to only the ones she knew of, starting with his fake suicide. She concluded he had lived an entire lifetime full of drama and upheavals that he didn't know how to process. Except to bury everything in that damn Mind Palace of his. And it didn't help that he had friends like Mary and John who enabled his slightly skewed view of the world.

"Of course, Rose," Mary conceded. "I'll apologise to Sherlock, for both our sakes."

"Then I'll help you with whatever you want."

"You don't know what it is, yet."

"As long as I don't have to break the law…"

A relieved smile spread across Mary's face and she reached into her jacket pocket. Holding out a key with a card attached, Mary said, "This is a key for a safety deposit box I've opened at a bank on the Strand. The details are on the card."

Feeling curious, Rose reached out and accepted both items before Mary continued.

"I've listed you as an authorised person, so you won't have any trouble opening it. Just take some I.D. with you."

"And what—"

"I've stored two packages inside," Mary went on. "One for Sherlock and one for John."

"So… why…."

"Rose. If the worst should happen…"

Rose could feel blood leeching from her face. The worst? Why were they talking about this? What was Mary planning?

"If… if anything happens to me…"

"Mary…"

"Rose, please. Try to understand the life I've led before. There are consequences."

Mary's statement went straight to Rose's heart. A past life? Consequences? She knew that concept only too well, and it filled her with dread. She gave Mary a tiny nod in acknowledgement.

"There'll be a funeral, I imagine," Mary said, braving a smile. "But before that, with any violent death, there's bound to be a coronial inquiry." She gave a light shrug. How could she speak so casually about this? Rose thought. "A bit of drama perhaps," Mary went on. "Sherlock will be pleased. But after all that… after all the mundane preparations and procedures the bereaved have to go through, there'll come a point where they'll have to go back to their normal lives, and that's… that's where John…" Mary's voice ran ragged, causing Rose's heart to stutter. "John," Mary tried again, forcing a smile to her face even though her eyes began to glisten. "John will need Sherlock. And Sherlock…"

"Sherlock will have me," Rose said.

"Yes. He will, Rose. I don't doubt that. But what you've got to understand is that they are unique. Our boys. And their friendship is a little unconventional."

"But the grieving process for most—"

"No, Rose. Listen for a minute." Mary drew in a steadying breath before continuing. "I've recorded a message for Sherlock. For Sherlock's ears only. I know how he thinks and how John reacts. Short of being there myself and knocking their thick heads together, this is the best solution I can think of."

Rose gave a vague nod of understanding. But she didn't know where all this was leading.

"Please send the parcel to Sherlock after all the boring stuff's done."

"And John's parcel?" Rose asked.

"Send it much later," Mary replied. "I didn't put an address on it, because I've no idea where he'll end up living. He and Rosie. But you'll know. Only send it when you think he's got it together. I'm sure he'll have a wobble now and again, but at least he'll have that message from me when he's ready to hear it."

Mary paused to wipe away an unshed tear.

"And Rosie?" Rose asked.

"Rosie?"

"Do you have a message for her?"

Mary slowly shook her head.

"I thought long and hard about whether or not to make a recording for her. God knows how many rules I'd like to put in a place for a sixteen-year-old girl. I know what I was like. Christ, John'll have his work cut out for him if she's anything like me. They both will won't they?" Mary's eyes dropped meaningfully to Rose's abdomen. "Sherlock as a dad of a teenage girl."

Rose couldn't help but give a low chuckle at the thought, even though this conversation felt a bit surreal. She also knew how much grief she gave her own parents at the age of sixteen.

"Boyfriends?" she ventured.

"Deduced within an inch of their lives," Mary said, laughingly. "Oh, God. The poor things. And John. He's very handy with a gun."

As Rose's smile faltered, Mary quickly added, "Sorry. Bad joke." She gave Rose a reassuring smile. "But in all seriousness, I can't imagine Rosie not wondering why her mother, who had no obvious signs of illness, would want to pre-record a message for her. And I don't want her to know, ever, what I did for a living."

A small lump formed in Rose's throat. It was only now she was beginning to realise just how similar a situation she and Mary were in.

A warm smile grew on Mary's face, her eyes rounded with affection.

"And neither do you, do you?"

Rose looked away, her eyes beginning to sting.

"Does anybody else know?" Mary asked.

"My family," Rose replied, with a rueful smile.

"And?"

"And I'm over 400 miles away from them, about to have a baby."

Mary regarded Rose for a moment, her expression unreadable, before she spoke again.

"And what would you do to keep your past a secret from the rest of the world? What lengths would you go to?"

Rose's breath shuddered on the way out, and she gave a light shrug.

"Because it will come out, one day, Rose. And you need to prepare yourself for that. What's that saying? 'Hope for the best, but prepare for the worst'? Sherlock Holmes is the father of your child. You might be prepared to live a life in secret, and Sherlock's more than capable of leading a double life. But what about your daughter? Can you ask the same of a small child? No doubt she'll know who her father is. How famous he is. The press love Sherlock Holmes. He's got his fair share of fans and critics all over Britain, and maybe beyond. Have you thought about what that could mean—"

"I've thought about it a lot, actually. But I'd never want our daughter to know her mother used to sell her body for sex. Or that her father once paid for it. Never."

"And that's what I'm asking, Rose. What would you do to stop that getting out? Would you shoot a man?"

Rose didn't have an answer to Mary's question. To take another life was an extreme reaction to a difficult problem. But when pushed, how far could the average person go? How far would _she_ go to protect her secret and those she loved?

"Somebody out there knows about my past," Mary continued. "And Sherlock's stirring things up. It's only a matter of time—"

"Sherlock wouldn't do anything stupid."

"Sherlock may not be prepared to do what's necessary. Not after last time."

Rose furrowed her brow. She didn't understand Mary's remark. What did that mean, 'not after last time'?

"So I need to get to them before Sherlock does. It's my responsibility, not his. And these… these video messages are important to me. It's like a soldier on the battlefield writing a letter to send to their loved ones, in case they never make it home. That's all."

"You don't have to make it your own private war," Rose said.

"I'm hoping for the best," Mary said with a smile. "And preparing for the worst. I think you should do the same."

Mary straightened up, wiped at her eyes one more time, then said, "Time to wake up our sleeping beauties."

Mary didn't stay too long after easing her daughter out of Sherlock's arms. Naturally, the Consulting Detective was instantly awake. But Mary kissed him on the forehead, gave Rose a hug, pausing to whisper another 'thank you' in her ear, and rapidly vacated the flat with the excuse that she wanted to get home before John did.

Sherlock stretched and yawned, then enveloped Rose in a tight bear hug.

"Christ, I need some fresh air," he said.

"Which is code for 'I need a cigarette'."

Sherlock chuckled and released Rose.

"Only when I'm on a case," he said, leaving the room for the kitchen.

"You haven't solved it then?" Rose called out to him.

"Unfortunately, I fell asleep."

 _Really?_ Rose thought to herself. _I didn't notice._

As she retrieved her tea cup from the side table and brought it into the kitchen, Sherlock emerged from his bedroom, pulling on his jacket.

"I won't be long," he said. "Why don't you come with me? We can walk along the Thames."

"It's still light out."

"I'll meet you somewhere after dark."

Rose slowly filled the cup with water from the sink and thought about his proposition.

"We can't really do that, Sherlock. You know that."

He came up behind her, and slipped his arms around Rose's waist.

Gently nuzzling into her neck, he said, "Then I'll bring chips home."

"That's more like it," Rose said with a light chuckle. "And a salad on the side." She left the cup in the sink and turned around in Sherlock's arms. "But know this, Sherlock Holmes," she said, lightly patting his chest. "If you're not home by 8pm, I'm going back to my flat."

"Why?"

"Because I need to eat. I'm pregnant, remember? And there's no food here."

"My apologies. I'll do the shopping tomorrow."

"Mrs Hudson's back tomorrow. I think that's why you were stalling."

Sherlock's grin stretched wide. Guilty as charged, it seemed to say.

"So, if you're not here by—" Rose began.

"I'll find you at St George's Fields."

"Exactly. Or I might go out partying with my friends from Roches. It's Friday, after all, and I know where to find them."

"Mm," Sherlock said, dubiously. "Is that an incentive to get me back home quickly?"

"No." She searched his eyes for evidence of comprehension. "But I'm here now, in London, so it's easier for us to spend time together, when we can. I don't expect you to spend every waking minute with me, but I'm not studying or working anymore, and I do have friends here. I'm not going to spend Friday night at home alone when you're out working. How sad would that be?"

"I don't know. Is it?"

"Yes. For me it is. So, I'll see you later. Either here, before eight, or at my place much later."

Sherlock hesitated before answering, his brow furrowed.

"Okay."

He pressed his lips to hers, delivering a sweet and tender kiss, before drawing back.

"I love you," he said. "And don't think for one second that I take for granted you moving back to London."

"I know, and I love you, too."

"I'm just worried you're going to go off and find a hundred different charities to volunteer at."

"I won't."

"And what was that about today?" he said, indicating the bedroom with a tilt of his head.

"What? Rosie? Mary came here looking for you. I thought I'd help out in your absence."

"Mm."

"What?"

Sherlock loosened his hold on Rose and stepped back.

"That's just it. I don't want John and Mary thinking the three of us can go out on a case, leaving you here holding the baby. Both babies."

"I know. It won't happen. Mary just wanted to do something and you weren't here."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, a sure sign he was attempting to hone in on the truth.

"She wanted to do what?"

Rose shrugged.

"I don't…. something for her case, I guess."

"Yes, you see," Sherlock said, striding away from Rose and entering the living room. Rose left the kitchen to follow him. "I have to solve this case before Mary does." Sherlock grabbed his coat from the back of the door and drew it on as he spoke. "Otherwise, she may do something even Mycroft can't help her with. And after the last time, his little committee may be a bit hesitant to turn a blind eye."

"Last time? What are you talking about?"

"Must dash. Don't wait up!"


	90. He's Not About Thinking. Not Sherlock.

Rose approached cautiously, because something wasn't right with him. Her initial impression of how he regarded her was wildly uncharacteristic of Sherlock.

At first, she thought he was upset she'd been out late, that she'd somehow betrayed him by spending time with her friends. So much hurt in his red-rimmed eyes. But that was… utterly ridiculous. He wasn't insecure like that. But a tiny arch of his brow changed his look somehow. _He'd_ betrayed _her._ He was guilty of something, and came off looking like a child about to be reprimanded. Her heart wrenched. Something _awful_ had happened.

"Sherlock?"

Her words hung in the air, joining the remark she'd uttered when she first entered the flat.

" _I'm so pathetic. I can't even last until midnight._ " And the light chuckle that accompanied her statement, that seemed so inappropriate now, the one she had to strangle out of existence when she actually saw his expression, still hovered on the periphery.

Sherlock slowly rose from his seat on the two-seater in front of the fire. In a rush, he was in front of her, seizing her, locking his arms around her and knocking the breath out of her.

Rose slowly reached for him. His breath came in short bursts, hot on her neck. His normally lean figure had sort of crumpled. He still said nothing.

Make a deduction, Rose thought to herself as he tightened his grip on her. That's what Sherlock would do.

Tobacco wafted from him. It was caught in his coat, his hair, and his skin. But _he_ was cold. His face, his coat, and his hair, when she reached up to smooth a hand over it. Rose had been out in the elements, but she'd already shed her coat the second she came through the door. Underneath, she was warm. Sherlock hadn't removed his Belstaff. The cold night air had settled on him like frost.

So he hadn't been here long. He'd been out smoking and walking. And that means thinking and over-thinking, being Sherlock.

But his eyes…

as if he'd been…

crying.

Not just thinking.

"I'm here," Rose whispered, gently stroking Sherlock's nape. A cold sense of dread encircled her heart. "I'm here, now."

.


	91. I Needed a Hug

This was the longest they had ever embraced without saying anything, Rose thought. She kept her arms wrapped around Sherlock's neck for as long as he was holding her. After a while, he straightened up, released her and turned away with an accompanying sniff. He stood with his back to her as if to recompose himself.

Rose couldn't stand the silence any longer.

"Do you want to talk abou—"

"Mary's dead."

His words didn't register at first. They swam around her head, not settling.

"What?"

It was more of a gasp from Rose, than a posed question. And there was no point to it. Not really. She heard him perfectly well. A spike of adrenalin shot through her. This wasn't real, surely.

There didn't seem to be enough of an explanation. Something that had upset him so deeply should've required more words than that. But Rose's skin began to prickle all the same. Sherlock didn't turn around. His gaze was fixed toward one corner of the room, where nothing of significance sat, except a lamp, and it wasn't even lit.

"H-how?"

Not Mary. Rose had just spoken to her that morning. How does someone die so soon after taking their baby home from the babysitter's? The baby that wasn't sixteen yet. The baby that was supposed to grow up and become a pain in the backside to their mother?

"She was shot."

Sherlock slowly bowed his head, and still he didn't turn around to face her. From the movement of his shoulders, she could tell he was drawing in a couple of deep breaths. But there was a buzzing in her own ears, probably from the stillness of the room. Maybe because mere words shouldn't carry so much weight.

_Shot._

"Somebody… a woman…" He waved a hand as he spoke, as if to dismiss his own words. "The traitor…secretary…"

"What?"

He didn't speak again.

But this was an odd way to carry out a conversation, Rose thought. Him with his back to her. Not when this conversation was important.

Rose moved where she could at least see Sherlock's profile, her limbs stiff and heavy as if wading through water.

"What happened?"

_Keep calm. You know how to do this._

Sherlock didn't move, so Rose walked up to him and slipped her hand in his. He immediately recoiled and pulled his hand away.

"Sor—" she began.

"It's my fault," he said, his voice crackling a little. He moved away from Rose to the other side of the room.

 _His fault?_ Words that appeared to be a burden to him.

"What happened?" she asked again.

 _No… be patient with him,_ she scolded herself _. He'll tell you in his own time._

 _What are you doing?_ came another voice—still her own, though in opposition.

Sherlock was numb—Rose could see that now—while her own mind failed to grasp what was real. She hated that she had fallen into a familiar role, as if this was a case study and she had to demonstrate competencies in trauma and grief counselling. She didn't have time to be another victim of grief. She had Sherlock to think of. He needed her.

_And now you're in denial, Rose?_

_No. Not denial. Selective inattention._

"I provoked her," Sherlock said.

"Provoked… Mary?"

He seemed unable to speak again, so Rose prompted him with, "Tell me where you were, Sherlock."

_Stop this. This isn't your job._

"London Aquarium…. Sharks." He shook his head lightly, as if to clear it. "Security Services… told me where she was... Smallwood's… secretary."

"And who else was there with you?"

 _He's talking now,_ Rose reasoned with herself _. Especially when I say his name. He's numb. He's been wandering around over-thinking, and now he needs to be encouraged to say the words out loud and know that he's being heard._

_Stop this, Rose. You're not taking notes on Sherlock's counselling session._

_No! This_ just _happened! He may be in shock and not able to take the next step. Perhaps someone in authority still needs to do something._

"Sherlock…" _You need to stop and process this yourself!_ "…is there someone I can call for you? The police? … Your… brother?"

Sherlock slowly turned to her, his brow furrowed.

"No," he replied. "They were there. They're on it."

Rose gave Sherlock an encouraging nod, but he averted his gaze again. She could see his mind was still racing. He was staring, unseeing, into space, his eyes moving rapidly like they did when he was deep in thought.

"What can I do for you?" she asked.

_For him? What about you? Mary's dead, Rose!_

"R-right now?" Rose went on. "What can I get you?"

He seemed to come out of his trance, and stared at her, puzzled.

"What?"

"A cup of tea?"

_Mary's dead, you stupid tart!_

"Tea?" he repeated.

"Or… s-something," she said, beginning to falter.

"Cigarettes," he said tonelessly. "I've almost run out."

Cigarettes! She could do that. _Mary's dead and I can fetch cigarettes!_

Sherlock crossed the room and unlatched the door to the tiny porch that overlooked the gardens. The flat he'd so thoughtfully picked for her contained easy access to a beautifully landscaped common area. Over two acres! Because he cared. Because he was going to be a wonderful father.

After slipping outside, Sherlock shut the door behind him. The crisp air that had snaked its way inside jolted Rose into moving.

Cigarettes. Where could she get them from at this time of night? It was almost midnight. By special delivery? Of course. Rose knew all about special deliveries, thanks to John Garvie.

 _John Garvie!_ _Remember that sick perv? He could get anything delivered because he knew who to call. Food, booze, fags, coke._

_Sex._

Rose clenched her jaw as she crossed the floor to the armchair where she'd dumped her jacket. Furious with her own conscious mind, Rose snatched out her phone. A quick search on Google through a haze of anger found a handful of delivery services, none standing out more than the others.

Rose dialled the first number, her mind rapidly listing what Sherlock could want. Alcohol, cigarettes…

_Sex!_

She swiftly ended the call, suddenly needing to gasp for air. She couldn't do this. Mary had _died._ Baby Rosie was going to grow up without a mother.

 _No,_ you're _going to grow up without a mother_ _, Rose_ _!_

Rosie wouldn't even have any memories of Mary. Her mother didn't record a message for her. What were Mary's last words to Rosie? Possibly, 'hush now, go to sleep?'

_Better than, 'You're no longer our daughter.'_

Shut up!

A sharp object thrust into Rose's heart and her head swam. She sank down onto the sofa and bowed her head. She couldn't do this. She needed to dial another number.

" _Hello, love!_ "

"I… I…" Her breath shuddered on the way out and she realised she couldn't suck in enough air to form any more words.

There was a pause before Justine said, " _We'll be there in a jiffy_."

After a couple of gulps of air, Rose's head cleared enough to realise she'd better get to the door now before Bob broke it down. Her security detail was seconds away, having taken up residence in the flat next door.

Rose made a bid for the entrance. She could hear keys jangling in the lock. Of course Sherlock had given them a set of keys! But bloody hell, they were fast!

The door swiftly swung inwards, thankfully before Rose reached it, otherwise she would've been smashed in the face with the force of it.

"I'm… fine," she said to Justine's expression of concern.

Justine pulled her keys out of the lock, her eyes rapidly taking in the rest of the room.

" _Christ!_ " came Sherlock's exclamation from the patio.

Rose gasped and turned toward the patio door.

"It's okay, love," Justine said, lightly placing a hand on Rose's shoulder. "That'll be Bob. He must've startled Sherlock."

At the same time, Rose heard Bob say, "Y'all right?" to Sherlock.

The patio door opened and Bob peered in.

"All right?" he repeated to the room at large.

"Yes, sorry," Rose said pitifully. "It's…"

The dark silhouette that was Sherlock turned around and studied her over Bob's shoulder. His face was visible in the light emanating through the door. Rose saw his eyes drop to the phone she held in her hand and his brow furrowed. He gave a light shake of his head, and turned away again to draw on his cigarette. Obviously he'd already deduced what had happened in just one glance.

"I… I'm sorry," Rose began, a flush creeping across her cheeks as Bob entered and closed the door behind him. "It's stupid. Sherlock just needs… cigarettes. And I…"

"It's all right, love," Justine said softly. She directed Rose toward the sofa. "Bob can go out for cigarettes. You sit down a minute."

"Ah, yeah, 'course," Bob said, his expression quickly morphing from one of mild incredulity to one of acquiescence, as he shoved something into the back of his trouser waistband.

"It's just that… someone died," Rose gushed. "A friend… just… earlier."

"I understand," Justine soothed. Throwing a quick glance up at Bob, she said sharply, "Crispins! They're open late! Just go through the mews."

"I know," he replied.

Through tears, Rose tried to apologise once more and told Justine about Mary getting shot and how she felt so helpless that she couldn't do anything for Sherlock.

"You just need to breathe for a moment and I'll fix you a cuppa tea. Don't worry about Sherlock right now. He's coping in his own way. You have to look out for number one!"

The scaffolding Rose had so carefully put in place to prop her up collapsed beneath her. The pain came in waves. Justine comforted her, as great heaving sobs wracked through her. She said all the right words, Rose noted. She appreciated the woman's efforts, but it still didn't help alleviate her own sense of failure at not helping Sherlock. Although, he was outside smoking his last cigarette, and doing a fine job of getting on by himself.

_And Mary? Mary was dead…_

_And where did that leave baby Rosie…_

_And John…_

By the time Bob returned, Justine had placed a cup of tea in front of Rose. She held it for comfort; it warmed her hands but not her heart as a thousand thoughts flitted through Rose's mind. She was vaguely aware of Bob joining Sherlock on the patio holding more than a packet of cigarettes. _Oh. A bottle of scotch whiskey and a couple of glasses_. _Good for them._ What she wouldn't do for a toke right now—to blissfully float away on a cloud of skunk from Amsterdam.

"I don't know what happened, exactly," Rose told Justine. "Sherlock won't speak to me."

"Just give him a minute, love."

"But he's had hours!"

"And now he's having a quiet drink with Bob. He'll be fine shortly. You'll see."

Justine was worth her weight in gold, Rose thought. A cup of tea later and advice on letting people talk about things in their own time— _and Rose knew this!—_ had her feeling marginally better.

And a good cry was a great emotional release.

Justine went out onto the patio to "see how the lads are getting on" so Rose gathered the tea things and went into the kitchen to recalibrate her own mental state in solitude. She started unloading the dishwasher when Justine came back in.

"We'll head off, love," she said to Rose. "He'll be back in shortly," she added, with a tilt of her head toward the kitchen window.

Rose assumed Justine was referring to Sherlock and she smiled appreciatively. Justine gave Rose a hug, and insisted she call if they needed anything else.

"And maybe we'll devise a code word for needing to come 'armed' or 'unarmed'," Justine said with a wry chuckle.

Rose thanked the Wilsons for coming over, apologising to them once more. She returned to the kitchen to finish emptying the dishwasher in an attempt to keep busy and distracted.

A dark shadow filled the doorway, prompting Rose to look up in surprise.

"Are you okay?" Sherlock asked.

Rose nodded, and attempted to give Sherlock a half-smile. She was relieved to see he'd at least removed his Belstaff. Hopefully that meant the end of him standing outside in the cold and smoking.

"I'm sorry," he said.

Rose's heart twinged at the rawness in his voice.

"You've got nothing to be sorry about," she said, moving towards him. "It's horrible. It really is." She reached for him and drew him into a hug, which Sherlock returned by gently rubbing her back.

"It's late," he said, easing back. "You must be tired. Why don't you go to bed? I'll finish up here."

"There's nothing left to do." Rose studied Sherlock's glassy eyes and hoped his session or chat or whatever it was with Bob had relaxed him a bit. "You should come to bed as well."

He tried to give Rose a reassuring smile, but it didn't quite meet his eyes.

"I'll be there in a minute," he said.

He pressed a quick kiss to Rose's lips. Whiskey and tobacco.

Rose turned and left the kitchen. She wanted to take Sherlock by the hand and lead him to bed, but she had to force herself to give him the peace and solitude he probably sought.

It had been a long night and she wished she hadn't spent so much time at the pub. Would it really have made a difference to Sherlock if she'd been home, though?

Feeling exhausted, she peeled off her evening clothes and turned on the hot water in the shower. Leaving it to heat up, she brushed her teeth and removed her makeup, all the while thinking she'd go back out to the living area to make sure Sherlock came to bed.

Shower first, though, she thought, stifling a yawn.

She spent far too long under the hot water. Steam had filled the bathroom. Tilting her head back, she let the water cascade over her face and hair, rinsing out the last of the conditioner.

"Rose."

His voice echoed throughout the room and Rose had to wipe the side of the shower screen to see him.

Sherlock stood in the doorway, still dressed in his white button-up shirt and trousers.

"Yes?" she asked.

"Are you going to be much longer?"

"Sorry. No. Just finishing."

"No… it's… all right. Take your time."

He went to back out of the bathroom, but Rose called to him.

"Do you want to come in? I'll add more cold water. I know you don't like it as hot as I do."

Sherlock didn't answer, but reached for the button on his left cuff as he re-entered the bedroom. She'd take that as a 'yes' then. Keeping to her promise, she added a touch of cold water and steadily turned down the hot.

Sherlock eventually appeared through the steamy mist and wordlessly entered the shower stall. Rose stood aside to allow him full access underneath the shower nozzle, but he tilted his head back, only briefly wetting his face and hair, before he lowered it again and blinked against the water running into his eyes. He drew Rose toward him. She had wanted to massage shampoo into his curls and lather his skin with his special soap, easing the tension out of him that way. But before she made an attempt to do that, Sherlock gently cupped her face in his hands and kissed her softly at first before easing her lips apart with a swipe of his tongue.

Desire and longing drizzled through her as his tongue teased hers, slowly, deeply and thoroughly, mixing his whiskey with her mint toothpaste. She felt the warmth and need in his kiss and she melted into him. The shower continued to hammer them, the spray a dull roar in her ears.

Sherlock's mouth left hers, slipping down to nibble at her throat as he banded her tightly to him. Rose cupped a hand around his nape and lifted her chin to expose more of her neck, clamping her eyes shut against the spray. One hand drifted up and down her spine, as the other sought her breast. She felt his own arousal against her and she slid her hand between them. Suddenly his mouth was on hers again, his hands cupping her face before finally drawing her away.

Sherlock turned off both taps then regarded Rose, creases appearing in his brow. He'd clenched his jaw, making his cheek bones more prominent as water continued to trickle from his hair over the sharp contours of his face. Rose reached up and smoothed a strand of damp hair away from his forehead.

His mouth turned down at the edges, so Rose slipped her hand in his and led him out of the shower. She gave them both a cursory rub down with a towel, then took Sherlock again by the hand to the bedroom.

The lights had already been dimmed, the bedcovers turned down. By Sherlock? A tiny detail, but it reassured Rose that he was going to be okay. Preparing for the future—even a gesture as small as this—was a positive sign.

They paused by the bed when he took her in his arms once more and brushed his lips over hers.

Her lips tingled beneath his. She edged him toward the bed, where he took the hint and eased them both onto it, allowing Rose to stretch herself over him. With a barely stifled moan, she took him into her. She delighted in hearing his own contented sigh and set an almost torturous, deliciously slow pace.

Sherlock's eyes locked on hers as he lightly held her hips. The passion between them built by degrees as Rose maintained an even rhythm. Her skin hummed wherever his hands glided, but still she resisted the urge to rush.

She lightly held onto his firm torso to steady herself. Did she think he was feeling vulnerable? Was she maintaining her own self-control for his benefit? She wanted him to finish with her; she had to get the timing right.

She watched the rise and fall of his chest, her eyes then dropping to his pale taut abdomen. She knew every inch of him so intimately. Without thinking, she smoothed a hand over his surgical scar. Sherlock moaned, whether in satisfaction or protest, she didn't know, but his hands wandered, gliding up and down her thighs. His eyes had darkened considerably, and she imagined her cheeks were as flushed as his now were.

As a light tremor ran through her, she gripped him harder. She watched as Sherlock's lips parted, his eyes reduced to slits. Rose knew she could let herself go.

She emitted a long, low sigh in surrender. Sherlock gripped her hips, a moan escaping his own lips. He clutched at her, pulling her deeper. The pressure was exquisite and Rose's breath came in short gasps as the wave of her orgasm reached its final peak, crested and shuddered through her.

The sound of Sherlock's pleasure came from deep within his throat, ending with a gasp of "Rose." She kept moving for him, listening to his shortened breath as his hands silently urged her on, until he finally held her still.

The creases in his brow faded, and he closed his eyes for a few seconds.

Sherlock tried to pull Rose down toward him, an almost impossible task with her swollen abdomen between them. She climbed from him and moved to lie by his side, snuggling into his chest when he put his arm around her. She listened to the drumming of his heart beat, racing along in time with her own.

Rose took a moment to recapture her breath when she became more self-aware. Specifically, her hair. It was soaking wet. Sherlock would complain about it in a few seconds. Rose lifted her head slightly, but Sherlock's embrace tightened.

"Thank you," he said in a voice just above a whisper.

"It was noth—"

"And I'm not talking about the sex."

Rose waited a beat before she tilted her head to look up at him.

Avoiding her gaze, Sherlock added, "I'm not sure where I'd be if you… if you weren't here."

Rose's throat constricted a little.

"I'll always be here for you," she said softly. "Always."

Sherlock didn't respond except to lightly brush his thumb over her arm.

Rose ventured, "And when you're okay to talk about what happened tonight, whenever that is… I'll be ready to listen. But if you don't want to say anything, that's o—"

"There's nothing more to tell," he said.

He's not ready yet, she told herself. Perhaps he'll never be, and she had to accept that.

Rose settled once more alongside Sherlock. His heartbeat thundered in her ear. So strong and dependable. She felt when it began to slow, a hypnotic rhythm that thickened the air around her, making her eyelids grow heavy and her limbs slacken.

"I thought I was clever."

Rose was instantly awake. She smoothed a palm over Sherlock's chest to let him know she was still listening, still awake and attentive.

In a steady monotone, in a voice as deep as an ocean trench, Sherlock recounted the evening's events for her.

.

 


	92. Incapable of Human Emotion

Sherlock leant over Rose and kissed her again. A closed-mouth smile spread across her face. Her eyes, though slightly puffy with dark circles underneath, still sparkled back at him.

"I won't be long," he said.

Her smooth naked body was warm and covered in only a blanket. Her scent still lingered. Desire and longing coiled through him. But he had showered and dressed and had to reassert his sense of purpose. Her dishevelled appearance and ability to ease his torments wasn't enough to lure him back in.

Rose's smile faded a little, but she gave a tiny nod in agreement.

"I should be there before she gets back home," Sherlock added, probably unnecessarily—Rose would've worked that out—but his heart felt heavy in anticipation of being the one to inform his landlady of the news of Mary's death.

Rose's brows arched in sympathy.

"I know," she said, rubbing Sherlock's arm and ending with a light squeeze. "Do you want me to come with you?"

With him? Disappointment rippled through him. Rose thought he needed her help and guidance. She assumed he couldn't cope with this task on his own—offering to be there for him, even to the point of compromising her relative anonymity.

"No," he replied, keeping his expression neutral to disguise his wounded ego. "I'll be fine. I'll call you later."

Rose held him in place for a moment longer.

"You have a kind heart, Sherlock," she said, her eyes searching his. "Don't let anyone tell you otherwise."

Sherlock's throat constricted, and he immediately pressed a kiss to Rose's lips once more so he didn't have to look her in the eye while he attempted to recompose himself.

He regretted telling her everything last night, and she'd honed in on John's last words to him. Of course she would. Guilt and culpability had seeped out of his pores like sweat, and she had eagerly mopped his brow of it. A case for her counselling skills at last!

But Sherlock had spent half the night awake, replaying everything with a mounting sense of disgust. He'd lain there, his heart bare and bleeding. Where was the man who was above all this?

Sherlock's lips left Rose's, and he brushed them against her cheek, pressing them there, too, before drifting to the soft skin behind her ear. A soft sigh escaped Rose. This was not going to end with him getting to leave in a timely manner.

He drew back, but there, on the curve of Rose's neck, was a reddish mark. He furrowed his brow.

"Did I…?"

He stopped himself. He didn't want to talk about it, but Rose detected where his gaze was directed and lifted her hand to her neck.

"Is it a love bite?" she asked with a trace of humour, as she pressed her fingers to it.

_Love?_

_Bite?_

Firstly, it can't have been a bite. The broken capillaries beneath her skin were clearly as a result of Sherlock nibbling and sucking there. Hard. Until her sighs turned into a gasp of ecstasy.

_Love?_

He had been driven, he knew that much.

In the early hours of the morning, he'd woken with a start, already hard. It wasn't just nocturnal penile tumescence. He'd slid over to Rose, smoothed a hand over her, caressed her with light fingers until she stirred, sighed and opened for him. And then he took her. Tirelessly he plunged, while she clung to him, moving just as urgently beneath him, gasping his name. It wasn't at all one-sided. Sherlock could feel at least three places on his person where he sported his own 'love bites'. _Stupid name._

"Don't worry," she said as Sherlock made to rise from the edge of the bed where he had been sitting. "I can cover it up with makeup before I go out."

He knew, without looking at her, that there would be a glint in her eye that told him she loved it when he took her with surprising urgency.

"What are you up to today?" he asked conversationally, endeavouring to change the subject as he crossed the room to the chair that held his jacket. Today was Saturday, and normally… ( _normally? Is there anything they did 'normally' any more?_ )… normally, they'd spend the weekend together.

"I'm having lunch with Lisa. She's—"

"Good," Sherlock said, pulling on his jacket. "I'm not sure how long I'll be. Lisa… she's the main salesperson… floor thing… isn't she? From the home entertainment store."

"No. She's the psychology student I tutor. Used to tutor. The single mum from—"

"Oh, good."

Why did he even bother learning their names? They kept switching identities, he was sure of it.

"—Edinburgh, here to visit fam—"

"Well, have a lovely day."

He gave Rose a quick smile to counteract her frown, and a wink for good measure. He felt a tiny bit guilty walking out on her mid-conversation, but he couldn't tolerate gaining another insight into the life of an undergraduate psychology student he cared nothing for.

Once Sherlock had left St George's Fields via the front security gate, he drew out his phone and took the volume off mute. As expected, he had sixteen missed calls and nine messages. No need to check who they were from.

He dropped his phone into his coat pocket, then rummaged around for his packet of cigarettes. As his fingers brushed the corner of the packet, he suddenly felt nauseated. After last night, perhaps today was a good day to give up.

His phone rang.

"Mycroft."

A pause, where he assumed his brother was quietly making a few deductions about the speed with which Sherlock answered the phone, the tone of his voice, and the ambient sounds of his surroundings.

" _You're not at your flat_ ," came Mycroft's first statement.

_Very good, Mycroft._

"No. I'm on my way, though. Mrs Hudson's returning from Corfu—"

" _Yes. I know. I've got a car waiting for her at the airport. I didn't want to add to her stress levels today._ "

_Good God. What was the man doing?_

"That's… very thoughtful of you. But now she'll be expecting something."

Another pause. Sherlock felt he should ask Mycroft how everybody else was faring. Did he need to make a statement to Scotland Yard? Did he have to report to the Security Services to help concoct a story surrounding Mary's death? Would they issue another D-Notice?

There was a jolt in his heart he endeavoured to ignore.

" _And will you see John soon_?"

And now his stomach roiled just to complete his feeling of unease.

"Yes," he replied, his voice rasping slightly. "At some stage. When an acceptable amount of time has passed in Mrs Hudson's company, I guess I'll head over to his place."

" _You may not find him there. He could still be at Bart's. Hasn't left Mary's side all night, from last reports_."

Sherlock stopped in his tracks and bowed his head. The emotions he'd successfully kept at bay since waking pressed in on him. Squeezing his lungs.

"Right."

" _There'll be an autopsy of course._ "

"Yes, naturally." There was no air left inside his chest with which he could speak properly.

But speaking of autopsies… Why bring that up so soon? What was his brother getting at? That eventually someone would have to forcibly remove John Watson from his wife's bedside so they could cut her open?

"That could be a week or more away," he offered.

" _It's tomorrow_."

Sherlock sighed and decided to continue walking along George Street. If he was going to die of some mysterious ailment—internal organ failure, perhaps—he may as well get as close to home as possible.

"Tomorrow?" he repeated. "Please tell me you didn't ask Molly Hooper to do it?"

" _How insensitive do you think I am?_ "

"Is that a rhetorical question?"

" _Ms Hooper_ —"

" _Doctor_ Hooper."

"— _will be needed for babysitting duties, as far as I can see_."

 _Babysitting duties._ Sherlock stopped in his tracks again.

 _Rosie_.

"Molly knows then," he said, bowing his head and running a hand through his hair.

" _Yes. Detective Inspector Lestrade informed her. She was babysitting the Watson's infant at the time of the… It was quite a busy night last night. Everyone was concerned for your whereabouts, naturally._ "

"Well, I'm fine and in one piece. I spent the night in one of my bolt holes. Okay?" Lies. All of it.

" _Would you like me to send a car?"_

"I'm almost home." Another lie.

" _The funeral is scheduled for Tuesday._ "

"For God's sake, Mycroft."

What _hadn't_ his brother organised?

Sherlock would never get home at the rate he was going. He crossed the street and continued on while Mycroft endeavoured to tell him that a swift funeral was for the best, and didn't Sherlock remember they hadn't delayed getting his own underway.

"This is different," Sherlock remarked. "Mine was—"

" _The same person is grieving_."

A cold hand clutched at Sherlock's heart. He suddenly realised that _this_ was what John had been going through… when he thought he'd lost his best friend. But what did Mycroft know about such things?

" _I know it's not easy for you_ ," came Mycroft's voice again in a lower, kinder tone. " _She was your friend, too. Suffering a loss such as this…_ " Such unfamiliar words were coming out of Mycroft's mouth. What is this? " _With Redbeard_..."

Appalled, Sherlock hit out, "For God's sake, Mycroft! You're not comparing this to… to losing a pet dog?"

" _You shut down after you lost Redbeard_."

"He was a dog. I got over him."

Mycroft was conspicuously silent. No snide remarks regarding his pet dog? Still holding the phone to his ear, Sherlock silently observed the world around him—the preoccupied early risers of a London Saturday morning.

" _I'll keep you informed if John leaves Bart's_ ," Mycroft said, with the finality Sherlock knew meant dismissal.

He ended the call.

But Sherlock had the distinct impression this morning wasn't going to get any easier.

* * *

"Strictly family, I'm afraid," said the nurse. "Well… just Doctor Watson, actually."

"I'm…" Sherlock began. _The man who killed his wife. Will that do?_

"Mr Holmes, yes, I recognise you," she finished for him. "How about I check?"

Sherlock's confidence in asserting his rights had disappearead the closer he had come to Bart's hospital. He'd left Mrs Hudson in the company of Mr Chatterjee, having asked her holiday companion to come inside for a moment. Sherlock hadn't wanted to be alone imparting the news.

He'd left her crying after holding her for several minutes. He made the excuse that he just had to see how John was faring. Naturally, she'd waved him away and Mr Chatterjee assumed the position of someone to whom she could cling.

The nurse turned to leave, and Sherlock gave her a head start before following her. She didn't invite him to, but he couldn't stand waiting in the visiting area a moment longer. He had to keep moving.

He saw the room she'd disappeared into, and approached cautiously. The door was still ajar, but slowly closing before him. He could hear low voices from within, but John's soon dominated, rising in volume. Sherlock just caught, "… _anywhere near us right now!_ "

He froze, his mouth running dry. He stepped back, and didn't hear the nurse's response. But when she exited the room, she gave a start upon seeing him several metres from the door.

"I'm sorry. A bit too soon," she said, smiling apologetically. "Perhaps if you…"

But Sherlock had already spun on his heels and was striding away.

* * *

He scoffed again and violently sat up. Rose almost fell from the sofa.

"This is ridiculous," Sherlock said, the creases in his brow prominent. "I can barely lie on this myself. And you in your…" He waved a dismissive hand at her. "…condition, means we both can't fit comfortably. If at all."

He sat at the end of the sofa and plopped his feet up on the coffee table. He vigorously rubbed his hands through his hair, leaving strands of it sticking up in angry tufts. Rose moved the cushions from behind her back, her heart thudding loudly. She stretched out her legs on the table next to Sherlock's and leant into him. He tutted. She tried to concentrate on the show, telling herself he was allowed to have outbursts of anger during this 'grieving period', and it wasn't about her. But Sherlock's mood had darkened considerably over the last few days and her eyes began to sting anyway.

Mary's funeral was on Tuesday, and Rose had no idea whether Sherlock had actually attended or not. He didn't visit her that night. His words "John just needs time" about his visit to the hospital on Saturday were quite telling and he spent a bit of time not in Rose's company. She had no idea what he was feeling. Not that he would tell her anyway. The raw emotions of Friday night had pretty much disappeared.

"Pointless," Sherlock spat. He aimed the remote control at the telly and switched it off.

Rose straightened up, about to protest, but Sherlock stood and stalked off towards the kitchen.

She briefly closed her eyes and tried to maintain a steady breath, before clicking the remote control to put her crime drama back on.

Things were definitely see-sawing with him. Just yesterday Sherlock had seen a therapist! At first, Rose thought they would then make some progress, but talking about his own feelings wasn't Sherlock's intention at all. After his remark about John, Rose had commented that perhaps he'd like to talk to someone about it, if not her.

"Yes," he'd murmured, with a far away look in his eyes.

It shouldn't have surprised Rose that he had decided to visit _John's_ therapist under the guise of his own concerns about experiencing recurring dreams. Where had he picked that up from? But he had then proceeded to quiz the therapist about John instead. He didn't get very far with extracting information about one of her clients, obviously. No wonder he was in a bad mood.

With the funeral out of the way— _the_ _boring bits,_ Mary had said—Rose had visited the bank on the Strand in the morning. The DVD for Sherlock was safely tucked away in her bag. Perhaps whatever Mary had to tell Sherlock would give him some direction and sense of purpose. Rose wasn't sure when to give it to him, and she didn't want to trust it to the Royal Mail. She'd been tempted over the course of the day to have a look at herself.

 _Really, Rose_?

It was a private message from Mary to Sherlock. _Of course_ she wouldn't watch it.

Rose tried hard to concentrate on her show. The main protagonist, the Detective Inspector from Yorkshire, was going to confront the man they all knew to be the serial killer. By herself!

"Oh for God's sake," Sherlock muttered as he re-entered the room carrying a mug of some hot beverage. "I bet she's not armed."

Rose stared at Sherlock as he settled himself down onto the sofa once more, propping his feet up on the coffee table and taking a sip of the drink he'd made for himself.

"Why are you still watching this?" he asked with his eyes glued to the screen.

"Because I'm enjoying it."

"Her detective sergeant's in cahoots with the killer. Obvious."

"What?"

"Ow, that's still hot," he remarked, grimacing after taking another sip of his selfish drink. "The DS had been in a relationship with him in highschool. Didn't you see the framed photograph on the shelf behind her dining table when she was talking on the phone over breakfast?"

Rose dropped the remote control on the sofa beside her and stood up.

"You choose something else then," she said. "I'm going to the bathroom."

She walked off without a backward glance and heard the programme change behind her. Rolling her eyes, she mounted the stairs. Did she really need the bathroom, or was she just making excuses to leave Sherlock's side?

Rose used the toilet anyway. Small bladder. Any excuse. She went to head back downstairs but was distracted by the light she'd left on in the spare room. It was going to be the nursery and had already been fitted out with the furniture she and Justine had purchased while Sherlock had been in Morocco.

The piles of clothing she'd been sorting earlier were still sitting on the change table. Rose's heart stuttered. Another sore point.

When Sherlock had arrived earlier that evening, he found Rose in the 'nursery' sorting through clothing Lisa had given her on Saturday—secondhand baby clothes from her brother or sister-in-law, or whomever she had been visiting while in London. Neutral colours and yellows and greens.

Sherlock had screwed up his nose when she'd explained it to him.

"Secondhand baby clothes? Ones that someone else's baby's worn?"

"Well… yes. Probably only once. And they're clean. Actually, I think some of them have never been worn."

Sherlock then proceeded to sample each one, placing them in one pile or another. New. Used. New. New. Used. Used. Used. Used. New.

And then he'd sauntered off, as if job done!

Rose looked at the two piles now. She couldn't have Sherlock wrinkling his nose every time their daughter wore one of the used items. Although, she could just wash all of them together, and then they'd smell exactly the same. How could he tell then?

He was Sherlock Holmes. Who was she kidding.

Rose picked up the pile of 'used' clothes, and placed them back into the shopping bag Lisa had given her. She'd donate them to charity and keep the rest.

Rose's heart felt heavy as she placed the second pile of clothes into the largely empty drawer. She couldn't imagine it being full. She had this discussion on an expectant mother's forum—about who'd stocked their nursery already. Apart from buying furniture, Rose hadn't done any of that. No nappies, lotions or wipes, except for the gift basket full of products Indira and Alice had given her during her baby shower.

Having a baby—in contrast to being pregnant—was still something that wasn't a reality for Rose. The closest she'd come to thinking they'd be an actual family—she and Sherlock and a tiny baby girl—were the couple of times Sherlock had chuckled at their baby kicking, and had kissed her abdomen. Since Mary had died, Sherlock hadn't acknowledged her pregnancy at all, except for the "your condition" comment he'd made earlier and the scoffing at baby clothes. He hadn't hugged her from behind and rubbed her belly and rumbled out a laugh at the acrobatic antics of their daughter.

Rose stared down at the cot mattress still covered in its protective plastic sheet. Her eyes pricked with tears. How were they going to progress to being doting parents with Sherlock behaving like… like what?

With Sherlock behaving like he used to be, when… when she first met him.

"You didn't come back," came Sherlock's voice from the doorway.

Rose hiccupped, startled, and quickly wiped at her eyes before turning around.

Sherlock was standing on the threshold holding a mug of tea. Not the mug he was drinking from earlier, but another one, one with a chamomile tea bag label dangling over the side.

"I made you tea," he said, blinking, as if a little unsure of himself, "and left it in the kitchen to steep earlier. Sorry. Do you want it up here?"

Stunned at this change of events, Rose's eyes rapidly moistened. She quickly sniffed and blinked back her tears.

"In the bedroom," she said, heading for the door. She flicked off the light and said, "I'm finished here anyway."

Sherlock followed her in, and she busied herself turning down the covers and switching on her bedside lamp.

"I've upset you," he said, after placing down her tea cup.

"I'm…" Rose gave him a half-smile. "I'm pregnant. It's in my job description to be upset."

"I made you cry."

"Sherlock…"

"Mrs Hudson keeps crying."

To her, he suddenly seemed like a small child who didn't understand the simplest of emotions. As if he'd regressed.

"She's… grieving," Rose said, tentatively. "It's her response to Mary's death. Crying is a great emotional outlet, but not everyone grieves in the same way. Some people just busy themselves with other things. It's perfectly fine either way."

Sherlock shoved his hands into his pockets, his eyes scanning the bedroom rug before returning to hers.

"You're not going to finish watching the show with me?"

_Say yes, Rose. He needs your company, but won't admit it._

_No. I have needs, too. And I'm so fucking tired. The last thing I want is more verbal abuse in front of the telly._

"I'm… probably going to read for a bit. But thanks for the tea."

He gave her a tiny nod in acknowledgement, then made for the door. Rose held her breath, willing him to turn around, but he didn't.

She read for ten minutes, twenty, then twenty-five, not really concentrating on the _Psychology Today_ article.

 _Oh, for fuck's sake_. She tossed her iPad aside and drew back the covers. Grabbing her now empty tea cup, she headed for the door.

The instant she was out on the landing, she knew. Downstairs was in complete darkness, and there were no sounds from the television. She flicked the light switch on the landing, then descended. The signs were all there, though, the most tell-tale of all, the empty hook by the door where Sherlock's coat ought to have hung.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not quite the end of T6T, but almost. Just one more chapter to go in the episode. I know this, because I've already written it :D
> 
> Thanks for your kind comments! I don't usually reply to them. I think it's a bit strange for the site to add my replies as comments themselves. I'm used to the PM system of fanfiction.net, but I do appreciate each and every one!
> 
> And of course I'll reply if you have (non-spoilery) questions.


	93. Breaks It Off - Breaks Her Heart

Rose drew out her phone and inhaled deeply. It was a quarter to seven, not too late. Sherlock wouldn't be joining her this evening, again. That much was obvious. She brought up his contact details. Her thumb hovered above the handset symbol. Don't text! He ignored chit-chat type messages, but she wanted to let him know she was here for him.

Her stomach churned. He blamed himself! What must he be thinking? Why hadn't she gone downstairs sooner!

Unsurprisingly, her call went straight through to his voice mail.

"Hi... Just…"

… _checking to see how you were…_

… _worried about you…_

"…wondering if you wanted chips for dinner? I've got a craving. Pregnancy hormones. Who would've thought I'd be craving them?"

She finished off with a laugh. Pathetic. He'd see through that in a second.

Rose wandered the flat in search of something to occupy herself with, but the floors were swept, benches and table-tops clear, and the laundry done. She collapsed onto her bed and stared up at the ceiling. When her phone buzzed with a message, she eagerly snatched it up.

_Oh, crap. Adrian again._

Now that she was back in London, it was surprising the number of friends from Edinburgh who thought a trip to the capital city was appealing. Probably the idea of free accommodation. London wasn't cheap. To be fair, Lisa had been visiting her brother, so that was a different case. But Indira and Alice—the latter obsessed with the London Underground—thought they'd visit after the baby arrived, as did Adrian. She wouldn't have the space to accommodate them all! Not even singly! And there was Sherlock to think of, and their fiercely guarded privacy.

 _I'll deal with rejecting Ade later,_ she thought, tossing her phone onto the bed. Tea first.

Rose hastened downstairs, momentarily relieved at having something to do. Upon returning, she carefully placed her tea onto the bedside table, sank down onto the bed and idly picked up her phone.

"Oh, for fuck's sake," she muttered. Away from her phone. Of course he'd bloody ring.

Swiftly, she dialled Sherlock's number again.

"I was going to call you back in two minutes," he said.

"Why? Where are you—"

But she was abruptly cut off by the very familiar, and very loud, clangs of the Westminster Chimes.

Rose opened and closed her mouth, but there was no point. Sherlock wouldn't hear her, and as it was, she had to hold the phone away from her own ear. A heavy weight descended on her and she scrambled out of bed. Why was he there?

Once the chimes had finished, Sherlock added, "Just a few seconds longer."

It was the longest thirty seconds of her life. Sherlock was on top of the bell tower! Rose paced up and down the small rug beside her bed. Come on! She needed the impossible—time to speed up!

After the seventh bong reverberated through her phone, Sherlock said, "Sorry about that. I tried to delay the chimes… moved those silly little coins around… but it didn't do anything."

"Why are you there? Who's with you? Sherlock, you can't… Just stay there. I can be there in—"

"Rose."

"You can't do this…" she said, choking on her words.

"Do what?"

Her breath came out in short bursts.

"This… take… take…"

"Take what?"

Her mind frantically tore through her crisis centre call processes, but they all led to her recommending a counsellor. She wasn't qualified to offer counselling!

"Take your… it's not yours to take. Don't you dare!"

"I've no idea what you're talking about."

How could he sound so casual? Heat was rising in her neck, spreading to her cheeks. She stopped in front of the bed and clenched her fist by her side, digging her nails into her palm.

"Take your own life! You can't do that! You're a part of our lives now. It's not yours to take from us!"

"Take my…? Oh... Rose, relax. I'm not about to jump. I'm having a cigarette. Mrs Hudson hates me smoking inside."

A flush crept across her cheeks and she relaxed her hand. She was so stupid. He was having a smoke? All the way up there?

"You can smoke here," she said in a small voice. "On the patio."

"It's raining."

Rose's heart still continued to thud dully in her chest. She was an idiot. Sherlock wasn't like that. Why had she panicked?

Rose forced a smile to her face in an effort to make her voice match.

"I… I was ringing about chips… do you fancy any?"

"... Sorry. I've already eaten. You must've read my mind. Couldn't get them delivered though."

There was a trace of humour in his voice. How could he joke at a time like this? But Rose deflated. He had an answer for everything.

"Will I see you later?"

She was met with silence, which caused the back of her neck to prickle.

"You don't want me around, disturbing your sleep, tossing and turning." His voice was lower. Considered.

"I don't—" _mind_ _or care_.

"I'll talk to you later."

"Wait."

Rose drew the phone away from her ear to check, but Sherlock had quite obviously ended the call.

_No! Stop it, you stupid man! Stop pushing me away!_

She quickly pressed his number again, and then just as swiftly ended the call. Who was she kidding? He wouldn't answer. He clearly didn't want to talk to her. If she was going to let him know she was truly there for him, then she had to do something a bit more drastic.

* * *

Rose passed through the internal door, which was still open and dropped her keys into her bag. The hall was lit by the lamp on the entrance table. Was it normally like this, or was Sherlock out? But Rose spied something she'd been hoping to find—a pile of letters on the table.

She pulled out the parcel from Mary. Careful not to disturb the pile too much, she slipped it underneath the topmost letter.

With a heavy heart, Rose ascended. The living room door was shut, but not locked. She opened it cautiously and stepped inside to find Sherlock Holmes staring at her, his brow furrowed as he sat in his fireside armchair, a book open on his lap.

"Why are you here?"

Not a good start.

Rose closed the door behind her and drew in a steadying breath as Sherlock pushed himself out of his seat.

"Because I love you and I miss you." She had wanted to say the words with conviction, but her voice trembled towards the end. "And I… wanted to make sure you were okay."

The creases in Sherlock's brow lessened just a little, as if he was thrown by her words, but then his jaw clenched and he narrowed his eyes. He tossed the book he was reading onto the seat of his armchair.

"I don't want you wandering around London at this time of night."

"I was with Bob."

Sherlock sighed as he approached her.

"Yes, I'll be having a word to him about that," he said.

"Sherlock."

But he kept moving towards her, with Rose freezing on the spot, only her eyes widening as he came closer. Leaning forward, Sherlock lightly touched her arm, ducked his head and kissed her cheek.

"Hello." He turned from her and asked, "Tea?"

Rose's heart continued to thump loudly as Sherlock left her for the kitchen. Her cheek felt warm where he had kissed it and his cologne lingered. Finding her voice at last, she thanked him, then added that she was just going to put her things away.

Rose swiftly made for the bedroom as Sherlock was filling the kettle. Her muscles still felt tense, and her chest tight. At least he hadn't kicked her out.

She left her coat and bag on the chair in the corner of Sherlock's room and re-entered the kitchen. Sherlock was leaning back against the counter with his arms folded in front of him and his head bowed.

"I had my first checkup today… since coming to London, that is," Rose said, with false cheeriness.

Sherlock straightened up, then turned around, his attention back to his tea preparation as Rose approached him.

"Everything okay?" he asked.

"Yes. Fine. Just the usual measurements and things."

He retrieved two tea bags from the overhead cupboard.

"I'll be going every fortnight from now on," Rose added.

He added sugar to one of the mugs.

"So… if you'd like to come along…"

Kettle. Hot water.

"…you're quite welcome to."

Tea bags jiggling.

"Sherlock."

Sherlock left the tea bags in the mugs.

"Do I need to?" he asked as he crossed the kitchen for the fridge.

"Only if… if you wanted to ask… something," Rose replied. Her face felt hot again. "If you had any questions."

"Why would I have questions?"

He came back with the milk and proceeded to add it to each mug.

"Or concerns," Rose said.

"I don't have any concerns."

He took the milk back to the fridge, so Rose reached for the mug without added sugar and left the kitchen with it.

"I'm thinking of going to a couple of antenatal classes," she called out.

_I'll just pretend to be normal. What else am I supposed to do? His behaviour is perfectly fine. Expected, even._

"Yes, I've heard about those," Sherlock said, making his way back into the living area with his own tea. "Mary wanted to go. She couldn't get John to… well, they were separated at the time."

Sherlock settled down into his seat, pausing to pick up the book he'd left there earlier. Rose carefully scrutinised him. He didn't even react to his own mention of Mary. He placed his tea down onto the table next to his chair and opened up the book.

"Did she go in the end?" Rose asked, casually taking a sip of her tea.

Sherlock shrugged and didn't look up from his page.

Rose cleared her throat and said, "Well, I might take Justine along."

"Good."

"I could just say she's my cousin… or something. Not really old enough to be my mother…" She finished with a laugh. Well, it was true. Justine was in her mid-forties. Perhaps she could've easily been a teen mum. A pretty cool teen mum. Although, had she been a teen mum, she may never have completed secret agent training, or whatever it was they did.

While Rose was having her own private conversation in her head, Sherlock didn't respond. She could feel the tiny tears in her heart getting bigger.

"I could say my partner's away… deployed… or…"

"Only lies have detail."

He turned the page then reached for his tea once more.

 _Or you could just say you'll come with me_! she thought furiously, shooting daggers at his bowed head.

Well, who else could accompany her when she was in labour, if not her baby's actual father? _But he said he'd be there… Then why isn't he preparing for it? And I should have someone else, if Justine isn't available either. She could be in Blackpool visiting her daughter and grandchild._

"Lisa's moving to Liverpool," Rose volunteered, suddenly remembering her friend from Edinburgh, who also had her own experience with childbirth. "Did I tell you?"

"Mm."

"She's going to transfer her credits to a uni there. Bit like me. Travelling all over just to come complete one bloody course. But she wants to be closer to her son, I guess. So…"

"That's nice."

"It starts up again in September—the course—but she'll stay with her brother while she's here in London. I think it's her brother she's vis—" _September! Lisa won't be here for the birth! Forget about her then._

Sherlock turned over another page, not reacting to Rose's break in conversation.

Back to her original plan with Justine then.

"So, maybe—"

"You really should think about turning in," he said, without any inflection in his voice.

And there it was. He was pushing her away again. Rose bit her bottom lip to prevent herself from crying. She dropped her gaze to her lap, fidgeted with the handle of her cup, then said, "Yes, I think I might."

She left her seat, and her tea, and moved toward Sherlock. Finally, he lifted his gaze from his book and looked up expectantly.

"Goodnight," she whispered, bending towards him. Butterflies flittered through her stomach when he inclined his head further. Their lips met, but Sherlock was already withdrawing before Rose applied any pressure.

"'Night, Rose," he said, his eyes dropping to the page.

Rose made herself scarce. She didn't care to take her half-full tea cup into the kitchen. Sherlock could. Then he'd see that he had dismissed her before she'd finished. He was clever about making deductions like that.

With stiff, heavy limbs, Rose went through her night-time ritual. Though exhausted, she didn't think she'd sleep at all, at least not until Sherlock had joined her. She fixed the covers on the bed, turning them down how Sherlock liked them to be. She left his lamp lit, and settled underneath the covers on her side, nearest the ensuite bathroom door. Her mind replayed their conversation, such that it was. Could she have behaved more supportively, less selfishly? She kept adding bits she should've said, deleting things she shouldn't have, over and over, until her eyelids grew heavy.

When the mattress sank lower, she was pulled out of her light sleep, not knowing until that moment that she had actually nodded off. Rose rolled onto her back as Sherlock pulled the covers over himself and turned to his side, facing away from her. He reached out and turned off the lamp just as Rose had stretched out an arm. She placed her palm lightly on his back anyway.

"Goodnight, Rose," he said, the instant she touched him.

Rose withdrew her hand, a lump forming in her throat.

"'Night, Sherlock."

She stayed where she was, facing in his direction, even though she couldn't make out his form in the dark. In the still of the night, she listened to his breathing, for ages it seemed. But after a while, she couldn't determine if he, like her, was still awake.

Give him time, she told herself. He wants to be alone, and your presence tells him he doesn't need to be. Don't push him any further.

_I'm a crap therapist._

_You're not his therapist._

_You're the woman who loves him unconditionally._

Sherlock's steady breathing lulled Rose into a state of half-dreaming, until she sank lower and lower into the depths of sleep.

* * *

From his vantage point on the corner of Melcombe Street, Sherlock watched Rose enter the Baker Street tube station with Bob at her heels. He assumed she'd be tempted to stay in his flat all day if she had woken with him beside her. He had made the uneasy decision to leave even before she'd woken for her routine trip to the bathroom in the early hours of the morning. He'd devised a scenario—a flat devoid of his presence—and combined with what he knew Rose's response would be, he correctly anticipated her next movements.

She would return again that night, and every night after that until Sherlock _spoke to her_ about his feelings. He needed time. He couldn't find words to justify the tightness in his chest and the never ending twisting and churning in his gut. His head buzzed with a million thoughts, none that were fruitful. What _feelings_ were these? And what if Rose couldn't fix him? Would she try to?

Sherlock left his post and returned to the flat. He contacted Bob later that morning, outlining his wishes for Rose. Bob dutifully agreed. No protesting on behalf of Rose. Good man.

But that morning, he dwelled too long in his flat.

"We'll have to rally round, I expect," Mrs Hudson said, dabbing a tissue to her nose. Sherlock made noises in agreement. "Do our bit," she continued. "Look after little Rosie."

Still dressed in her mourning clothes, his landlady found new ways to remind him that Mary was no longer with them. He hadn't left the flat early enough. He had to move away from the conversation—bury himself in work.

How could he look forward to the birth of his own daughter with the knowledge of what he had done weighing him down? He didn't deserve the life he and Rose were planning together. He couldn't look at Rose. He couldn't hold her, and it just about killed him. Neither could he talk about the future with her, not without his thoughts constantly straying to the Watsons and his own hand in destroying their family. It was his own arrogance and overconfidence in his abilities that had blinded him to the emotional response in another.

But the request from Mary via a DVD was a shocking discovery. There was too much to process, and Sherlock couldn't do that while Mrs Hudson was still sniffling by his side.

"Oh… she can't mean all that," she said, once Sherlock had closed his laptop lid. He leant back in his seat and brushed his lip with his thumbnail.

Then what did she mean? Her request was quite explicit.

Sherlock cleared his throat and said, "I have to go out. Clear my head a bit."

As he walked towards the Marylebone Road, his mind turned over a couple of other things Mary had said. The danger may be the fun part, but there were consequences he couldn't outrun forever. Although her words were preamble to her actual request, they remained with Sherlock, settling uneasily in his gut.

Traffic trundled along beside him, but he was oblivious to the trivia of everyone else's lives. This life of his, one that he had shared with John and Mary, it was what they wanted. What they all wanted.

_The danger was the fun part._

But not Rose, he thought as he crossed the Marylebone Road to continue along Baker Street. This wasn't the kind of life she had ever planned living. They weren't compatible. How could Sherlock Holmes bring a child into his world, which was fraught with danger? How could anyone?

A sharp pang in his heart reminded him of his goddaughter. Rosie! What was going to happen to her?

Sherlock stopped outside a fish and chip shop—his second favourite in the area. It was too early for chips. Where was he heading anyway?

He drew out his phone. He needed to know what was going on in John's life without calling his friend himself. Did he really need saving?

"Sherlock."

Molly sounded relieved to hear him, but an infant was also squawking into the phone. Clearly Molly was holding Rosie.

"Are you…" He stopped himself. Stupid question. Obvious.

"I'm with Rosie. John… John's not here. Do you think…" She stopped abruptly to soothe the baby. "Do you think it's too soon? For him to go back to work, I mean. He went in for a few hours. Or at least to see if they'll let him."

"I… don't really know."

"No. I don't either. Oh... Sorry."

Rosie had started her hiccuping cry once more.

"No, I'm sorry," Sherlock said. "I should let you go."

"She's just overtired."

"Talk to you later."

"Sherlock."

He ended the call and gazed along the street before signalling to a vacant cab. He was tired with having to navigate the city on foot. Perhaps he'll…

But wait. He shouldn't let Molly manage on her own. What kind of godfather did that make him? He gave the cabbie the Watsons' address and settled in for the ride, his phone still in his hand. He was in two minds whether to ring Rose or not.

Sherlock asked the cabbie to stay for a minute while he checked on Molly. If she needed a break from babysitting their goddaughter, he could send her home in the cab while he looked after Rosie.

As it turned out, he needed the cab for himself after being dismissed. Not unkindly by Molly. Her expression and body language were one of regret and embarrassment on Sherlock's behalf. But he could feel his heart shrivelling up all the same.

He directed the cab to Lambeth. A walk from the bridge, up-river, past Vauxhall, and perhaps all the way to Chelsea Bridge would do him the world of good. A body washed ashore somewhere along the embankment may prove a welcome distraction.

The hulking edifice of MI6 Headquarters rose up beside him as he neared Vauxhall Bridge. Her Majesty's Secret Service. Vivian Norbury. What had she been rabbiting on about? The Merchant in Sumarra—the story Sherlock had aways hated. This was what Mary was also trying to tell him. He couldn't outrun death. The path he was walking on, the dangers he was constantly seeking, would all lead to an inevitable conclusion. And this wasn't what he wanted for Rose and his daughter. Their lives needed to take another direction.

Sherlock's heart sank lower as he continued along. He had made up his mind. Mary's message had made everything clear to him. Sherlock and John and Mary were one particular type of person. To continue living the life he wanted, he needed someone like John by his side, as much as John needed him. And so he must save John in the manner outlined by Mary. As for Rose and their baby? He never wanted to put them in danger. And he didn't want them to have to go through this process of grieving by losing a partner and a father in such a violent, seemingly pointless way. Sherlock couldn't change his own destiny.

Suddenly short of breath, Sherlock stopped and held onto the railing beside him, as the full force of his decision hit him squarely in the chest.

He had to let them go.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Weird coincidence: when researching if Big Ben ever went out of sync, I discovered that it was indeed out by six seconds during the time this chapter was set—August 2015. They didn't know what had caused it!
> 
> And this is the end of The Six Thatchers! Fun times ahead! The Lying Detective is up next.
> 
> Did you enjoy my take on T6T? Enjoyment being a relative term!


	94. A Lie and Also a Kindness

* * *

Sherlock's phone lit up. The message, one from a representative of his homeless network, told him Rose had entered the train carriage.

He cradled the phone in his hand as he sat leaning forward by the fireplace, elbows resting on knees. It was now or never.

In his mind's eye, the doors closed and the train lurched forward. At this time of day, Rose would've found somewhere to sit. No need for a good Samaritan to give up their seat for the pregnant woman. Would her eyes be glistening, her brow still furrowed in confusion? Her key to Baker Street was missing. It should be an easy deduction for her. Sherlock had stolen her key the night before last. It wouldn't do him any good to dwell on how much her heart hurt right now. It was nothing compared to how she'd feel once she'd left the tube station at Edgware Road.

He was a coward to tell her like this. But it had to be done this way. If she was standing in front of him right now, the words wouldn't flow. He'd seize her and hold her and never let her go, chastising himself for contemplating breaking her heart. _Their_ hearts.

_And don't think about the… baby._

Sherlock shut his eyes and forced the air from his lungs, thus pushing those thoughts away. He stood up abruptly.

Rose would've lost the signal on her phone by now. His call would definitely go through to her voicemail. He had two minutes before she reached her destination.

He lifted his phone.

_Contacts._

_Favourites._

_Rose._

— _Heart twinge._

_Call._

Sherlock brought the phone to his ear.

" _Hi, this is Rose! I can't take your call right now. Please leave a message!"_

His stomach flipped. Of course Rose was going to greet him in such a cheery manner. How had he forgotten that little detail? The inflection in her voice seemed to be saying, _I hope you leave a nice message! My life has been an absolute shithole for so long, but now everything's going my way!_

_By the way, Sherlock, I love you!_

Sherlock dropped his arm, leaving the phone dangling by his side for a brief moment.

Now or never!

He lifted the phone up once again.

"Rose."

His voice crackled. He hadn't cleared his throat first! The lump of guilt wedged there had appeared in his first word!

Sherlock clenched his jaw. Keep moving! Pacing meant thinking, and thinking wasn't _feeling._

Sherlock strode to the other side of the rug towards the coffee table and about-faced.

"You once made a decision on my behalf."

_Good. Nice introduction there. Sounds a bit accusatory, but never mind. This is something she can relate to. Breaking hearts, remember!_

"One that I didn't understand at first, nor accepted later."

_One that tore my heart in two, which I will now attempt to do to yours!_

"But you were right. Your plans shouldn't have included me."

Sherlock paused, his mind scrambling for the next words in the sequence to destroy the woman he loved most in the world. What were they again?

He stood taller, inhaled deeply, his chest expanding. Tilting his chin up, he looked across the room for an imaginary audience of anyone who, at one time or another, had questioned his abilities or qualifications. He remembered how this went now.

"I'm Sherlock Holmes," he announced, his voice devoid of emotion. "And as you know, sentiment is the antithesis of everything I hold dear—logic and cold, hard reason. For the last few months I thought I was doing the right thing. Assuming the role expected of me in society. But you were right again, Rose. I was playing pretend. It wasn't me. Scott Williams is a figment of your imagination. He won't be returning. In fact, he'll slip in a puddle at the Globe to Globe Hamlet performance in Seoul. It's been raining there all week. Perhaps he'll come away with a nasty infection. Not exactly news-worthy. But his last will and testament will ensure you're both taken care of. As you know, all emotions are abhorrent to my precise and perfectly balanced mind. I have a delicate and finely adjusted temperament, and your presence has always been a distracting factor which may throw into doubt my mental acuity."

Sherlock paused. His mind was buzzing with a multitude of well-worn phrases he'd used over the years to explain either his unacceptable behaviour—as others saw it—or his methods of genius deduction. He had become quite carried away. So where was he?

"Don't bother ringing back. In fact, you should return to Edinburgh as soon as possible."

He stopped again, his throat beginning to constrict. The façade was crumbling.

Quickly clearing his throat, he added, "I've got work to do."

* * *

Footsteps approached. Sherlock had approximately ten seconds to recompose himself as he sat in his armchair.

It was no use. That wasn't long enough.

Eight seconds now.

His hand still supported his forehead as he regarded the hateful phone that lay on the rug between unsteady feet.

The wound he'd mended with rudimentary stitches after Mary's death, lay large and gaping once more. Worse than before, in fact. While he'd inadvertently caused Mary's death, he'd purposefully, willingly, calculatedly delivered a fatal blow to his relationship with Rose. Plunged a red hot poker inside his own chest. Rejected his partner and the daughter they were having.

It burned and seared his heart.

Say it again, one more time, to really incinerate it from the inside. He had to remember this—this scorching pain—so he would never make the same mistake again.

Five seconds.

The pain radiated outwards, twisting his joints til they also ached, causing his eyes to swim and bringing bile to his throat.

He needed something.

Three seconds.

An anaesthetic. Numb it all.

Two seconds.

Woo hoo.

One second.

"Oh, there you are." No 'woo hoo' then. Mrs Hudson no longer existed in such a light-hearted world. "I didn't think you'd be in."

"Fetch me your sherry from the sideboard in your living room."

"Why—"

"Now!"

No eye contact. Not when his were probably red-rimmed by now.

His landlady's exhale came in the form of a shaky 'o', and from the corner of his eye, he saw her figure disappear from the doorway. With heavy limbs, he picked up the phone and turned it over. Rose's contact details were still there. _Block this caller_. The final step.

Sherlock rose from his seat. Keep moving. Sitting meant feeling. Movement was for thinking.

But he found himself standing in front of the living room window, looking out onto the street. Somewhere between Edgware Road and St Georges Fields, a pregnant woman walked or stood, paralysed, after receiving devastating news. Right now. Rose was upset. He'd caused it.

He could go to her! Or ring her! Say it was a mistake. Wrong number. He'd meant to ring some other woman he'd been shagging to call it all off.

"Here, love," Mrs Hudson said behind him.

"Put it on the kitchen counter."

He didn't turn around. Too busy projecting apologies towards Rose's consciousness.

"Would you like me to—"

"Leave."

Again the shaky exclamation from Mrs Hudson. She probably thought he was still reacting to Mary's death. And in a way he was.

Dominoes falling. One after the other, leading him to this.

This solitary existence.

It was the path he was supposed to walk. Until his death. And he couldn't do that with… _family_ in tow.

Sherlock waited until Mrs Hudson's footfalls died away. He quickly strode over to the living room door and shut it. After retrieving a glass tumbler from the overhead cupboard, he poured in a generous amount of Mrs Hudson's finest sherry. He held the glass up to the light to examine the honey-coloured wine.

 _The Fino_. One of half a dozen bottles he'd bought her for Christmas the year before last, before he took off for the Himalayas. In happier times.

Sherlock chugged it back, swiftly draining the glass.

 _Jesus fucking Christ!_ He bent double, almost gagging.

Not as smooth and rich as the _Palo Cortado_ he'd purchased for her shortly after she'd been accosted by that CIA agent. Just as vile though.

Still, Sherlock poured himself another generous helping and made light work of it. It warmed his throat and settled into his stomach. It would make its way to his central nervous system soon, and the effects, he hoped, would radiate outwards and numb the gaping wound inside his heart.

That's what he needed. Time would heal him, because this kind of pain didn't go away in an instant. Closing doors in his Mind Palace would only work once he'd relieved himself of the physiological effects. Therefore, he needed something to anaesthetise him so he could carry on some semblance of living.

Sherlock stretched out in this armchair, crossing one leg over the other. He tapped one foot in agitation, waiting for the effects to hit him. Unsatisfied, he moved to the sofa, steepled his fingertips and closed his eyes. Nothing. The pain was still there. A higher concentration of alcohol in his bloodstream would bring him the sedation he sought, but then he wouldn't be able to function. What was the use of that?

Sitting up and irately ruffling his hair, Sherlock knew there was an alternative. There was always an alternative.

He snatched up his phone from the coffee table, where he'd tossed it earlier, and dialled a familiar number.

"Ye…'ello?"

A combination of 'yeah' and 'hello' from his faithful 'protégé'. But Sherlock didn't have time for social courtesies.

"Billy. Remember _Operation Bon Voyage_?" Without waiting for a response, Sherlock swiftly continued. "I need…" He stood, willing his mind to outline a few steps ahead. "Not as... strong. Lower tolerance, obviously." He experienced a fleeting moment of embarrassment. Why? Because he couldn't handle a higher dose? Because he'd been clean for months? Wasn't that a good thing? It was all relative wasn't it? But define _good_. "But," he added, suddenly remembering, "without the dry cleaner and the coat. Just… bring it here to Baker Street."

"But I ain't—"

Sherlock ended the call. He wasn't interested in Billy's excuses. The man would pull it all together again, surely.

* * *

Sherlock's eyes snapped open, and he angrily rolled down his dressing gown sleeve. Across from him, Billy's eyes widened.

"What the fuck was that?"

"Di'n ya—"

"That," he snapped, pointing towards the now empty syringe in the cup on the side table, "was not our special recipe."

"Of course it ain't."

"That was... dental anaesthetic and... caffeine, mixed with somebody's idea of a… of a… sarcastic quip."

"Yeah... prob'ly."

"Probably?" Sherlock said, creases appearing in his brow. "Don't you know?"

"Well, I didn't cook it. I 'ad t'buy it off the street."

"Off the street! I've just injected some idiot's chewing gum into my veins! Why didn't _you_ make it? I would've waited." Feeling thoroughly disgusted, Sherlock thrust himself out of his chair.

"'cause I... I don't 'ave the facilities. Don'tcha know that?"

Sherlock paced across the rug, his mind still buzzing, but with the delicate after-taste of a punch in the head.

"Why would I know the trivialities of your life?" he said, waving a disinterested hand.

"'Cause it was your brother who got me evicted."

That stopped Sherlock in his tracks.

"Took all me equipment away," Billy went on. "Said if I didn't want certain files found on me 'ard drive, then I'd better find new digs and stop production _post-haste_. It was a good thing I'd already hidden your going away present."

"My brother?" Sherlock repeated, his voice lowering a notch.

"Yeah. After Christmas. I left your parents' 'ouse after everyone started to stir. Jus' like you said. But... 'e found me on Boxing Day. I'm lucky I wasn't prosecuted, 'e said."

The three-legged dog that was the inferior speedball continued to scratch itself inside Sherlock's brain.

His brother.

Mycroft had ruined everything for him yet again.

"But I... I need something," he said, more to himself than to Billy. "Not this... this... itching powder." He scratched his head at the thought, _wanting_ to scratch behind his eyeballs, but a new idea arose. He slipped off his dressing gown along with his doubts. "Go," he said, waving a hand at Billy. "Stock up on the basic ingredients." He strode with a renewed sense of purpose towards the door. Grabbing his coat from the hook, he added, "I'll fetch the equipment." _Steal it. From Bart's again_. He continued speaking while he slipped his arms into the sleeves. "I'll bring it to your new place. Text me the address."

"No. Wait, Shezza. I can't cook there. It's a share 'ouse. I've got a landlord an' everything."

"What?"

This was getting worse by the minute. Sherlock scratched his head again, but it was definitely itchy on the inside. The fucking dog had fleas.

"I can't set up anything in there."

But…

His mind scrambled for an alternative. There was no way he could buy from another dealer. It would take days to find the best of the best via his homeless network or Billy's contacts. And even then, he just knew it would still be an inferior batch to those he and Billy had perfected in the old Canning Town college kitchen.

And he only needed one hit. _Just one good hit_. An anaesthetic. It would put him under before he had the surgery to remove his heart more permanently this time.

Just this once, he thought. One batch. One hit.

Slowly, Sherlock moved toward the opening to the kitchen, deep in thought.

"What?" said Billy, joining him as the detective-genius's eyes raked over the table, the countertops, the sink, and the small window at the back of the kitchen.

"New plan," Sherlock replied, one corner of his mouth curling upwards. "Bring everything here."

* * *

"I finish in a couple of hours, then I'm on babysitting duty," Molly said, answering Sherlock's question. "Why?"

"Just…" Sherlock drew in a steadying breath and closed his eyes briefly with the phone still pressed to his ear. Was he going to lie to Molly again? "Just wondering if John went back to work. You did say…"

"Yes. Every week day, this week. It was ten til three, at the start, but he was really keen to go back full-time. That's not good, is it? I can't tell, Sherlock. After my dad died, my mum just stayed in the garden, weeding."

"Everyone grieves in their own way."

_Thank you, Rose._

"And how about you?"

Her voice was soft. She was caring about him again. And what was he doing? Not asking how _she_ was. He was finding out when she wouldn't be at the lab so he could steal equipment and supplies. So he could get high. So he could look after _himself_.

"Work is the best antidote to sorrow," he said automatically.

 _Liar_.

"You're working?"

Sherlock swallowed the lump in his throat.

"Email cases only. I'm not in the mood for face to face interactions."

"Oh."

_Molly. For God's sake don't feel sorry for me._

"Do you want to go out for coffee? I-I could finish earlier and…"

"Molly…"

"And… meet you somewhere before I—"

"Molly."

"—go to John's."

"No. It's fine. Really."

More lies! He wasn't fine.

"I could come around if you don't feel like going anywhere."

Sherlock's entire body tensed. He didn't deserve to have somebody care about his wellbeing. All he could do was lie until he got his own way.

"Molly," he said, feeling exhausted from all the deceit. "You know me. We've been friends for a long time." He heard a tiny sigh in his ear. He knew what that meant. Perhaps he'd never been a _good_ friend to her. When it came to Molly Hooper, Sherlock always took from her and never gave anything back. Was that how their friendship was defined?

He couldn't do that again.

"And you know I like to throw myself into my work," he continued.

"I also know what happens when you don't have any work," she said.

Bowing his head, his shoulders also drooping, he exhaled noisily.

"Sherlock," Molly said into the silence. "I know John said… he said he didn't want your help, but… maybe you could come over to the house after I get there. Before John finishes work. You don't have to help. You can just say hello. That's not helping. That's just visiting."

She sounded so hopeful. A huff of a laugh escaped Sherlock. Good old Molly. She found a loophole in John's note. She was willing to go against the _spirit_ of John's wishes to make Sherlock feel better.

"I'm sure Rosie would love to see you," Molly added.

A kick in the gut. She mentioned Rosie! The pressure in Sherlock's sinuses became unbearable. How could he think about her and her cherubic chuckle when all he want to do was stick an ice cold needle into his vein? Pull back the plunger. Blood swirling into the barrel. Heart beat. Depress. Hold his breath. Heart beat. Heart beat. A clock ticking. Then… _Jesus fucking Christ_. Calm washing over him. Euphoria. Bubbles of ecstasy leaving his lungs and through his mouth. A soft blanket encircling him. Long lazy caresses on his brow.

_No. Wait a minute. That last one was usually Rose's fingertips._

It hurt. Just existing in this world as it was brought him more pain. That… that other thing, the solution to this horror was just around the corner.

But… Rosie.

And Rose.

And a baby girl that belonged to him. He'd pushed them away. The little baby that waved to him from the sonogram. Kicked his hand when he ran the flat of it across Rose's belly.

 _Grace_.

Rose wanted to call her _Grace_.

Sherlock dropped his phone hand and choked out a sob. He bowed his head into his other hand, tears now flowing freely.

"Sherlock."

Molly's voice from the phone.

His body felt wretched. His shoulders shook as the pressure he'd kept bottled up came spilling out. What had he done? Why had he chosen to hurt the ones he loved most in this world?

"Sherlock?"

Oh, fuck it, he thought, lifting his head from his hand and wiping his eyes. He looked to the ceiling and exhaled deeply to calm himself. Sniffing one final time, he decided that this was enough. That was the last emotional display. It was too late. He'd done what he'd done and now he had to get on with living.

Bringing the phone to his ear once more, he steadied himself.

Keeping his voice even, he said to Molly, "That... sounds like a good plan for another day. I'll call you later."

* * *

Light, swift footsteps in the stairwell. Not hesitating. _Determined_.

Molly Hooper.

Sherlock swiftly vacated his armchair and made a beeline for the bathroom. After locking the door, he pushed the plug into the sink and turned on the tap. He checked his watch. Not quite three. Clearly Molly had left work early after all.

The water slowly rose in the sink. When there was a sufficient amount of water in it, he turned off the tap. Just in time, too.

"Sherlock?"

He dipped his hand into the water and waited until her calls came closer.

"Sherlock?"

He abruptly lifted his hand out of the sink. Sherlock was pleased it made the required splashy noise.

"Molly?"

"S-sorry…" Her voice was just outside in the hallway. "Are you in the bath?"

Sherlock tilted his head toward the ceiling, forcing himself to slow down his breathing, which would render his speech indicative of someone lolling about in the bathtub.

"I just got in," he drawled. "What's wrong?"

Silence while Molly contemplated his situation, perhaps.

"Oh. Nothing. I just wanted to see if you were... okay. You probably are. It's fine."

Splashy sounds again.

"I can get out if you want."

"No! It's... okay."

"Don't be embarrassed, Molly. I have every intention of wrapping myself in my dressing gown before I open the door." Unlike the free exhibition he once gave Janine. _Remember that? It was during the time I'd previously broken Rose's heart._

_For Christ's sake! Will these feelings never go away?_

"It's fine, Sherlock. I have to get to John's anyway. I'll see you later."

Sherlock withdrew his hand from the sink and shook the water from it. Still perched on the side of the bathtub, he bowed his head and strained to hear Molly's footsteps dying away.

His body was still tearing itself up from the inside, but now he also had a headache, thanks to that cut to shit gear Billy had brought around.

It will be over soon. He'd give Molly a few minutes to leave the area, and then he'd be on his way to Bart's for the supplies he and Billy needed. One batch. One hit. His body would heal and he would be in fighting shape again. He had to be fit enough in mind and body to fulfil Mary's wishes.

 _Go to Hell, Sherlock. Go right into Hell, and make it look like you mean it_.

.


	95. The Day is Full of Highlights

Coffee. Genius.

Tea meant tea, but coffee _didn't mean coffee_. Good one, Billy. How many people could crack that code? Not many, in Sherlock's opinion. Morons. The lot of them.

Sherlock leant back in his armchair, nerves alight in every limb, all the way down to his feet, which he couldn't stop tapping, causing his legs to jolt and jiggle.

"Oh, for God's sake, hurry up!" he called to Billy.

A fix—one good hit. But Bill Wiggins hadn't perfected a recipe Sherlock found acceptable. His 'one good hit' hadn't happened yet, even though Billy had made many attempts.

Unfortunately, Sherlock hadn't determined exactly what his requirements were. He needed enough of an opiate to numb his aching heart, but not an amount that would render his synapses incapable of firing on command. He also required the perfect measure of cocaine to stay alert for work purposes, but not too much that would bring his reality into sharp focus. The reality he'd created for himself, as a result of…

No.

Best not think about _her_.

_Them._

A delicate balance, though. After administering his first hit, Sherlock had fallen asleep for three hours. After the second, he'd refiled his sock index according to thread count. On the third, he'd vacuumed the staircase, twice, until Mrs Hudson told him the vacuum cleaner needed to be plugged in. He yelled at her. She scurried away, crying. Probably. He couldn't hear her over the noise of the vacuum cleaner.

"'ere, y'go," Billy said, opening the doors dividing the kitchen and the living room. "I've been a bit creative. Got a special ingredient. I 'aven't tried it m'self."

"Why not?"

Billy drifted into the living room and frowned.

"I've only just made it. We both can't use at the same time. That goes against m'strict principals. I 'ave-ta be lucid enough to supervise you. If you wanna wait til this after—"

"No!" Sherlock said, shoving a sleeve upwards and flopping his right arm onto the armrest. "I haven't got time to conduct drug trials on animals."

"'ey!"

"Just give it to me."

"You 'ave-ta be careful," Billy said, approaching him with the gear. "Too much can cause hallucinations, especially on the comedown. That's not a bad thing." Taking a seat on a dining chair beside Sherlock, Billy added, "Some people want that. But in our line of work—"

"Just hurry up," Sherlock snapped, before letting his head drop to the back of the chair. He closed his eyes and murmured, "Save the safety demonstration for the flight home."

"Okay, then."

It wasn't bad. He'd need to try it again, just to be sure. And he must remember to update the list for his brother.

* * *

Sherlock regarded his right hand. Fascinating! It tremored slightly. He held up his left. Nothing. Withdrawal symptoms, obviously. He'd reduced his intake too quickly.

But Billy was right. Maybe he'd had too much in too short a period, but what choice did he have? Small fires ignited in his heart whenever he came down and he had to extinguish them repeatedly.

On one occasion, he'd hallucinated Rose. Her face loomed above him as he lay boneless on the sofa. Tears glistened in her eyes, and curious, Sherlock had reached out when she'd blinked, freeing one tear from the pool. He caught it on the tip of his finger, which he then held up and studied for quite some time.

His vision of Rose had disappeared, but his Mind Palace had conjured up her scent, and it lingered throughout his flat. He smelt it everywhere. It even wafted from his pillows at night. And when he brought the pillow closer, hugging it to him, he imagined it was Rose. Her apple-pear shampoo filled his nostrils and swam about his head. Such was the power of the hallucination, he could reach out and tangle his fingers into her hair and run a hand over her swollen belly.

The fading effect of the drugs always left him with a headache, a bone ache and a heart ache. But this cycle of getting high, trying to tolerate the comedown, and getting high again had to stop. Mary's request still hovered out of reach. If he remained in this state, he'd never have John's friendship again. Sherlock was supposed to 'save him', wasn't he?

_And for that, I need a case._

He drifted out of his bedroom one morning, or whatever arbitrary marker of the day it was, craving a 'coffee'. The kitchen was devoid of life, and upon entering the living room, Sherlock found that it wasn't Billy who tapped away at his laptop.

"Oh," the Rose-like figure said, looking up and rising from her seat as a smile grew on her face. "You're awake. How do you feel?"

Sherlock stopped short by John's armchair as she approached. His skin prickled at this fully-formed apparition.

"Feeling better?" she went on, drifting closer. She lifted a hand and touched Sherlock's forehead. He blinked several times and stopped breathing. "You don't have a temperature any more," she said. "Would you like a cup of tea?"

Sherlock's mouth opened and closed, but he stood solid, looking down at her. She arched a brow at him. This ghostly hallucination had all the hallmarks of a real person. And besides, all of Sherlock's faculties were telling him he was no longer high. But Billy's special recipe caused him to hallucinate on the comedown—the lingering effects of the MDMA component, he'd said.

Reaching out, Sherlock prodded the apparition in the sternum.

"What are you doing?" she asked, laughing lightly.

"How is it... you're…"

"I'm… what? Here?" Brushing past him, she gave his arm a light squeeze. "I'll get you that tea. You're obviously still a bit sleepy."

"Wait," he said, spinning around.

If this was the real Rose, she mustn't see his and Billy's lab at all costs!

"I know to keep the doors closed," she said, sliding them shut before he could step closer.

Sherlock knitted his brows together. This wasn't right! How could she be here? Why wasn't she reacting to the state of the kitchen, or to his own dishevelled appearance? Didn't she know he had torn himself apart to be rid of her? Didn't she understand his message, or…

Worse!

Didn't she receive his voicemail?

Sherlock pulled the doors apart, expecting to find the room empty, thus confirming his initial hypothesis that he'd hallucinated. But Rose was across the kitchen, retrieving milk from the fridge.

"I won't be staying for a cuppa," she said, bringing the milk to the counter. "I've got my appointment shortly."

"Rose."

"But Billy will be back any minute now."

"Why are you here?"

Rose filled a tea cup with water from the kettle. Her shoulders rose and fell, as if she had taken in a deep, steadying breath. Even in his current state, Sherlock still noticed these things.

"I want to make sure you're okay," she said, without turning around.

"I don't want you here."

Rose didn't respond. She put a dash of milk in Sherlock's tea, then jiggled the tea bag for a moment.

"I left you a message," Sherlock continued. "On your voicemail."

"Yes, I know," she said, twisting the cap back onto the milk container. "That wasn't very nice." She gave Sherlock a wry smile as she passed him on her way across the kitchen. "Of course I was really upset at first," she said, returning the milk to the fridge. "By the way, why are my handcuffs in here?"

Rose held up the set of handcuffs he'd once retrieved from her flat in Bayswater. Once upon a time, they were going to use them for Cluedo. In happier times.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, casting his mind back to why he'd moved them from the kitchen drawer in the first place.

"I'm hiding them from Mrs Hudson," he said. "I'm sure she's been taking them."

"She'll easily find them next to the milk."

"Then move them somewhere else… the salad drawer."

Sherlock crossed his arms in front of him and watched as Rose stooped to deposit the handcuffs in their new hiding place.

Job done, Rose turned to him.

"I didn't listen to your message properly," she said. "As soon as I heard it was from you, I hung up. I was so mad! And hurt. I knew what you were going to say. But then I remembered what you're going through, so once I got home, I listened to it and tried not to take it to heart."

Rose kept walking toward him, her expression soft and… _caring_. Sherlock stiffened.

"You need people around to support you," she said. "You need _us_."

Rose pulled up in front of him, close enough for Sherlock to catch a whiff of coconut, apple and pear. He inhaled deeply, his olfactory system struggling to kick into gear. He must store her scent for later!

Sherlock didn't know what to say. She didn't believe a word he'd said? But he'd just spent the past week (had it been a week?) nursing the gouge in his heart. He'd rejected her. Brutally! And she hadn't taken it on board.

"I… don't want you here," he repeated.

"I know," she said, patting him on the chest. "But it's not what you _want_ that's important, it's what you _need_." She turned away and retrieved his tea from the counter. Walking through to the living area, she added, "Come and have your tea."

Rose deposited the tea cup onto Sherlock's side table. Reluctantly, he followed her into the living room, but didn't take his seat by the fire. He didn't know what he was supposed to do. Another headache rapidly made itself at home along with the familiar queasiness that told him it would soon become a migraine.

Rose, in the meantime, had crossed the floor to retrieve her things from the coffee table.

"I won't be back this afternoon," she said. "Probably tonight though. I don't want to keep coming and going in daylight."

"How are you even getting in? I took your key."

Rose pulled on her coat as she spoke.

"Yes, I know. I had a bit of a row with Bob and Justine about it. But Billy lets me in, if he's here, or I ring the doorbell and Mrs Hudson lets me up."

"Mrs Hudson?"

"Yes," Rose said, another smile creeping onto her face. "She thinks I'm your therapist, remember. She's really concerned about you. We all are."

Sherlock said nothing, and clenched his jaw.

"Make sure you eat the food Billy brings back," Rose went on, heading towards him. "I don't want you getting malnourished."

She stopped in front of him again. Confusion still flitted through Sherlock's mind. This was like waking from a nightmare—one in which he'd broken up with Rose and slowly came apart at the seams. It wasn't true at all. The emotions he'd experienced had no basis in reality.

Conflicting thoughts battered his brain. Embrace her and don't let go. No! Push her away. That had been his initial plan, after all.

"Go away and don't come back," he said, his mind struggling to come up with a more sophisticated insult.

Rose's brows shot up, but other than that, her visage remained mostly composed.

"I'll be back later tonight."

"I don't love you any more."

The words tore out of his mouth, unchecked. A bit not good. Rose's expression, however, brightened a little.

"I don't love you any more either," she said before turning for the door. "Now don't forget to eat." She crossed the landing, leaving Sherlock's head reeling. As she descended the stairs, she added, "And keep hydrated!"

Wait.

What?

She didn't love him anymore? Another blow to the heart! How did that come about? Of course! She _did_ believe the message after all. He'd really hurt her!

"Wait!" he said, dashing toward the landing. "Stop!"

Rose paused midway. Sherlock joined her on the staircase, his head now rattling after being jolted into a full-blown migraine. He winced at the sudden onset of pain.

"Don't go," he rasped. "How can you not love me any more?"

Her expression didn't fit the situation. She regarded him…. sort of _affectionately_.

"Oh, Sherlock," she said, reaching out and caressing his face as a lump formed in his throat. "Of course I love you! I'm just being as flippant as you are. I know you still love me. So stop playing silly buggers, and go and drink your tea. I'll see you later."

She pressed a soft kiss to his cheek, then continued descending.

Sherlock spent a bit of time on the staircase trying to reorient himself. Eventually, he sat down on the steps and bowed his throbbing head. He'd become a shadow of his former self. His conscious mind may have no idea what was going on, but had his subconscious known all along that Rose hadn't disappeared from his life? Had she visited him every other night, soothing his brow, and curling up next to him in bed?

He didn't know how long he'd sat there by the time Billy entered the stairwell, carrying groceries.

"'ey. You all right?"

"No. I'm slowly dying."

"Well, I've got chicken, if that 'elps."

Billy continued upwards, leaving Sherlock to struggle to his feet, using the wall for support.

He bypassed Billy in the kitchen and lurched towards the bedroom. His skull rattled around in his head, the flat bones of the cranium becoming unfused and grinding against one another like tectonic plates. Sherlock steadied himself against the wall outside the bathroom.

"Y'need protein," Billy said as he unpacked the groceries.

Sherlock closed his eyes to shut out the light. It was no use. His head swam, and his insides roiled, so he staggered into the bathroom to expel the contents of his stomach.

* * *

Sherlock rolled his sleeve down. All was right with the world once more. His living room hummed with a vibrancy in harmony with the strings in his body.

"It's time for a case," he said to Billy, who was already checking emails on the laptop. "Tweet this." Sherlock pushed himself out of his armchair. "221BringIt!"

A case. Of course! That's all he needed, and then he'd no longer want to shut out reality by getting high. He could quit at any time! And by taking on cases again, Sherlock would inevitably find one that would put him in danger. He would go and pick a fight with a bad guy. Good one, Mary! Put himself in harm's way, and then John would be there, fighting beside him, as always.

As he made his way toward the living room window, Sherlock's momentary burst of joyousness began to dissipate. Rose. He had to make her go away again. With a heavy sigh, he drew the curtain aside and gazed out on Baker Street. This wasn't the life for her. She was supposed to be going to showers for babies and having groupie playtime up in Edinburgh. Nice and dull, and more importantly, safe.

But how to keep her from coming back?

"There," said Billy, leaning back in his chair and folding his arms behind his head. "In the space of thirty seconds, we've 'ad eighty-three retweets, and dozens of replies. Not all of them cases, o'course."

"Ignore the riff-raff," Sherlock said, puffing out his chest a little at the notion he was back in the game. He settled himself in his armchair once more. "And don't answer the door to just anyone," he added. "Clients only. I don't want concerned citizens and busy-bodies rocking up at all hours." Rose, more specifically. And he'd also have to tell Mrs Hudson he didn't need Rose's counselling services anymore. "Oh, and straightforward cases only. I don't want to go traipsing all around London at the moment."

No. He needed to be close to home in case he needed a cup of tea.

Tea?

No.

 _Coffee_.

* * *

"What do you mean?" Rose said, tromping up the stairs behind Billy, puffing lightly. She was always short of breath these days.

Billy turned to her, waiting until she caught up.

"Jus' standing there, the bloke said. Starin' into space. Cars beepin' all around."

"In the middle of the day?" Rose asked, one hand lightly rubbing her basketball-sized abdomen.

"No. This mornin'. Peak hour. But he was out all night."

Billy turned and continued upwards.

"And why didn't you ring me last night?" Rose asked. "He hasn't been out of the flat in ages."

"'Cause I thought 'e was just goin' out for chips."

Rose and Billy had reached the landing and stood outside the door to Sherlock's living room. Rose's hackles began to rise. What would she find behind the closed door?

"I only stayed away because you promised me you'd detox him," she said, struggling to keep her voice even. "'Don't come back for a few days,' you said. 'It'll get messy.' This doesn't sound like detoxing, Billy. Was that just a ploy by Sherlock to keep me away?"

"W-ell…"

Rose closed her eyes briefly and drew in a steadying breath as Billy pushed open the door. It wasn't in a panic that Billy had phoned her. It was more of an 'FYI', giving her the impression she could come around if she wanted to. Her friend never really panicked about anything. That he rang her in the first place strongly suggested something may be amiss.

As it was, Sherlock lay curled up on the sofa like he had been almost every time she'd visited him during this drug-binge period. He had his back to her, and he didn't stir when she gently called his name.

Rose deposited her bag on the floor by the coffee table, then leaned over Sherlock, calling him again and lightly touching his arm. He hunched his shoulders and tried to shuffle in closer to the back of the sofa. The sour odour of someone who hadn't washed in a few days reached her nostrils.

"I'm running him a bath," she said, straightening up.

"Uh, yeah. Good idea," Billy said, wrinkling his nose.

"Why don't you clean up a bit."

Rose waved her hand at the papers that littered the floor as she crossed the living room.

Billy followed her as she headed toward the kitchen, saying, "'e doesn't like me touchin' 'is things. 'e won't find anything otherwise."

Tutting, Rose drew open the sliding doors and stepped into the kitchen. Her chest heaved at the sight that met her.

Turning to Billy, she said, "Don't you think dismantling the drug lab is the first step to take when you're detoxing someone?"

"Oh, I… er…" Billy began, a sheepish look crossing his face. "I thought I'd make some money on the side. Seems like a waste otherwise. 'ere, I'll make you a cuppa tea."

Rose left Billy for the bathroom. Money on the side? Did he really expect her to believe that? Any of it?

_Detox, my arse!_

She wrenched on the hot tap, then sat on the edge of the bathtub while she waited for the water to heat up.

Her eyelids fluttered shut and she bowed her head. A full night's sleep eluded her these days. She couldn't get comfortable, not without half a dozen pillows supporting her belly, her back, neck and legs every which way. And her bladder! Squished and squeezed out of existence! But her mind was the greatest cause of her insomnia, with it worrying about Sherlock.

Rose straightened up and tested the water. On finding it hot enough, she pushed in the plug and turned on the cold water as well. Standing up and stretching, she stifled a yawn.

Bloody Sherlock.

Did he really think she would dutifully return to Edinburgh? And when Bob and Justine had started putting things in motion to pack up and head north, of course she'd screamed at them.

" _Are you fucking joking! You don't walk away from someone who needs support!_ "

Obviously Sherlock had given them instructions before he'd left that awful voice message. Don't escort Rose to Baker Street any more, he'd probably told them, and ship her belongings to Scotland.

She'd shocked the Wilsons by her sudden outburst. They were probably stunned by the number of swear words she used when threatening them with calling the police should they so much as enter her flat and touch her stuff.

Luckily they'd now made amends. Those first few days of Sherlock's rejection of Rose and her initial fallout with the Wilsons had made her feel terribly isolated. Justine was very understanding after they had a lovely chat. Rose insisted the couple spend a week or two in Blackpool, visiting their daughter and grandson, before her own baby was born and things became busier here in London.

"I will take it easy, but I won't stay away from Sherlock," she told them before they left.

Rose re-entered the kitchen to find Billy mixing some dubious-looking concoction. Her chest automatically tightened.

"Billy."

"It's not for 'im. I'm just testin' stuff."

Rose stopped by the kitchen counter and folded her arms in front of her.

"I think it's time to take drastic measures. I'm thinking… an intervention."

"Yeah, that sounds drastic," Billy replied, without looking up from his graduated cylinder.

"There's a place on the border," Rose began. "A castle. Sherlock told me about it ages ago. It's a rehabilitation centre, and he bribes them to have his name on the books in case anyone notices he heads north quite a bit. If we can get him there…"

"I can't see that 'app'nin'."

"He can't go on like this! He has to stop!"

Rose's voice was tight and strained.

"That's not so easy."

Rose clenched her fists. Why'd Billy have to be so casual about everything! A fierce heat spread across her cheeks.

"Stopping is easy! It's not starting up again that's the fucking problem!"

"'ey!" Billy said, looking up.

" _What's going on?_ " came a gravelly voice from the living area.

Rose's heart stuttered in her chest.

"I'm counting on your help, Billy," she told her friend in an urgent whisper.

Both Rose and Billy made their way through to the living room. Sherlock's legs were still stretched out along the sofa, but he was in a half-sitting position and rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands.

"Sherlock," Rose said, exhaling heavily.

"Oh," he said, looking over to her and blinking. "Hello."

"Y'all right, Shezza?" Billy asked.

"Buzzing," Sherlock replied. "And I've got the best news ever!"

"What's that?"

"We've got a case!"

Rose half rolled her eyes.

"That is good news," Billy said.

"Does that mean you won't be using anymore?" Rose said. She couldn't help it. The snark had set in. Her back ached, her feet throbbed, and all she wanted to do was sleep. A heavy sleep that lasted all night. And then wake up the next morning and have Sherlock fix her eggs for breakfast, and perhaps finish up with a foot massage, or whatever it was that fucking thoughtful, non drug-addicted partners did for their pregnant girlfriends.

She clenched her jaw as her eyes locked on Sherlock's. He tilted his head a little, as if he didn't understand her words, then he redirected his gaze to Billy.

"We've got work to do," he said, leaning forward and simultaneously swivelling his legs around. Sherlock rocked and teetered, then fell, face-first, onto the rug in front of the sofa.

 


	96. I'm Not Sweet, I'm Just High

 

Rose sat on a chair beside the tub and massaged shampoo into Sherlock's unkempt curls. A little tricky, comfort-wise, in her condition.

Only a small amount of protesting preceded Sherlock's time in the bathtub. He conceded they could still conduct their brainstorming session with Billy perched on the closed toilet seat lid, the computer on his lap. Up until this point, Sherlock had largely ignored Rose, until she suggested she wash his hair. His expression had been a mixture of embarrassment and contained excitement. Under normal circumstances, he loved that sort of pampering. That he acquiesced, perhaps indicated things were returning to normal.

Rose wasn't really listening to Sherlock and Billy discussing the rudiments of the case. Finally, Sherlock had something on which to focus. Perhaps he'd climb out of his drugged-out haze now.

"You're talking about _the_ Culverton Smith," Rose said, pausing her lathering, as she finally tuned in. "He's on just about everything. He does all those... charity things."

"'e' was on that wish thing, for kids with cancer…" Billy volunteered.

"Yes," Sherlock said, his eyes remaining closed. He waved a hand above his head to indicate he wanted Rose to continue with the head massage. "And that's what makes his particular level of crime utterly despicable."

"As opposed to someone who's openly hideous in his day job, who randomly murders lots of people on his off days," Rose remarked as her fingertips raked Sherlock's scalp.

Sherlock's eyes snapped open and focussed on Rose.

"He puts himself in a position of power over the weak and vulnerable."

"And then what?" Rose asked. "Murders one of them?"

Rose had to withdraw her hands when Sherlock sat up, deep creases appearing in his brow.

"Why don't you..." He flapped a hand toward the bathroom door. "Go fill a syringe for me. A higher percentage of cocaine. I need to think."

"Sherlock, no!"

Rose's mouth ran dry. What happened to abstaining? Didn't cases give him a renewed sense of purpose?

"Well, make me a cup of tea then," Sherlock said, sinking beneath the water again. He tilted his head back and began washing the shampoo away. "Make yourself useful," he continued, not looking at her. "You're not adding to the conversation in any meaningful way."

Rose's cheeks burnt as she left the bathroom, taking the chair with her to deposit in the corner of Sherlock's bedroom.

"Okay," she heard Billy say as she strode along the passageway to the kitchen. "I've made a list of the charities 'e supports, but there's only one main 'ospital that 'ad a wing named after 'im."

It took every ounce of willpower not to walk out. Of course she wouldn't. He needed her. His way of grieving was to bury himself in work and sedate his emotions. It hurt though, the way he was treating her. But she had to be strong. For her and their baby. And for Sherlock, of course.

Rose put the kettle on, then cleaned the counter around it. Every other surface was cluttered with dubious-looking equipment for the manufacture of illegal substances. She continued on through the living area, collecting tea cups and saucers. She piled them onto the counter and hoped Billy would wash them. Her East End friend had advised her not to go behind the plastic curtain in her condition, due to the fumes that may still be present. That made the sink area inaccessible.

By the time Billy emerged from the bathroom, she'd made three cups of tea. Two sat on the living room table, while the third was in Rose's hand. She sat in her chair by the fireplace, slowly sipping raspberry leaf tea while navigating through phone messages.

'Right, 'e wants a meetin' with Culverton Smith," Billy said, taking a seat at the living room table with the laptop. "'as to be the same day that Doctor Watson finally takes a look at 'im."

"What are you talking about?"

"Coordinatin'," Billy said, without turning around. "Oh, thanks for the tea, Rosie."

Coordinating what? Rose had no idea what Billy was on about, nor did she care.

"Billy. I want you to dismantle the equipment in the kitchen. You have to tell Sherlock you're cutting off his supply.

"Nah, can't do that," he replied without turning around. "I only watch over people. I don't preach or counsel."

"That was before. Now you're manufacturing and supplying. There's a difference."

"Yeah, well, we're working on summat."

Rose's blood began to boil. Billy was spending far too much time around the arrogant sod.

"I'll… I'll report it to the police."

"And put y'self in the spotlight?" Billy asked, finally dragging his gaze away from the screen.

"I won't tell them my name. An anonymous tip."

Billy turned his attention back to the computer. He sighed.

"Shezza said the nick 'ave been 'ere loads-a times for drugs busts. They never find anything. It'll be like the boy who cried wolf. They won't waste their time comin' round again."

Rose brooded in silence. Of course she'd never ring the police. She wouldn't do that to Billy.

Or Sherlock.

She thought she heard movement in the kitchen and waited a beat, but Sherlock didn't emerge.

"He's using you, you know," she said in a low voice to Billy.

"I'm learnin' stuff," he replied. "Like I said: I'm 'is protégé. And now we've got a proper case."

"So he doesn't need any of that!" Rose said, furiously pointing toward the kitchen.

Her outrage didn't appear to have any effect on Billy. She tried to lean back in the chair but it was hard to stay comfortable these days. Her insides began to churn again. The little baby tumble dryer inside her had switched on. Rose absentmindedly rubbed a soothing hand over her rather large baby bump.

Finally Billy stopped typing and turned to her.

"'e can detox at any time," he said. "Look what 'appened last year. And 'e 'asn't been using at all this year. Stoppin' won't be a problem for 'im. Doesn't affect 'im too much. Well, except for that thing at Christmas."

"What thing at Christmas? Do you mean us breaking up?"

Billy's eyes widened a little.

"No… the…uh… yeah. Your break up."

He looked nervous for some reason.

"Is that what you meant?" Rose asked.

"Ah. Yep. 'e chucked a lamp across the room. Made a hole in the plasterboard. Shame, when he'd spent so much time fixin' it up. Painting 'n stuff. Well, don't matter now. Not since I got evicted. A hole in the wall is someone else's problem, innit?"

Billy turned back to the computer. Rose narrowed her eyes at his profile. An awful lot of detail there, Billy.

_Only lies have detail, Rose._

If Sherlock was teaching Billy, then why hadn't he taught her friend how to lie better? Sherlock was the best at that! So what was Billy covering up for him?

Rose received a sharp kick on one side of her stomach. Cheeky thing.

_You know when I'm thinking ill thoughts about your dad, don't you?_

_Dad._

Sherlock was going to be a father. Did he even think about that any more?

"Billy," Rose began, attempting to keep her voice even. "You know he has a baby on the way. Has he said anything about that at all?"

Thankfully, Billy turned his attention to her again.

"'e said you should be in Edinburgh and I shouldn't let you in. 'e tried to tell Hudders not to let you up, but she said he should be talking to someone about... y'know. Coz 'e's grievin'. She thinks your 'is therapist."

"Yes. I told her that ages ago. And she's right, though."

 _Sherlock's not talking about the baby._ Rose's eyes stung, but she blinked potential tears away and took another sip of her tea.

"I'm due in four weeks," she said, looking down and rotating her cup in her hand.

"Then we'll 'ave this solved in three," Billy stated confidently.

Rose was only slightly warmed by Billy's comment. He continued clicking the mouse, prompting Rose to finally look at the computer screen to see what was keeping him so occupied.

"What are you doing?" she asked.

"Jus' browsin' this list of therapists."

"So you think he needs one, too."

"No," Billy said, twisting around. "Not for 'im. For Doctor Watson."

"He already has one. Sherlock visited her."

"Yeah. I know that. Do you think Doctor Watson will go back to her if he knows Shezza tried to question her?"

"I don't know," Rose said with a light shrug. _Nor do I care._

"What do you think Doctor Watson's state of mind is like? What would 'e be planning for the future?"

"I…" She was going to dismiss Billy's question, but the topic under discussion had taken an interesting turn: speculating about someone's state of mind. Rose missed her uni seminars. Frequent contact via phone with her ex-classmates made her miss Edinburgh and her life there. Not to mention the visits from Scott Williams. Her stomach twisted at the thought. Was Scott Williams even still alive? Sherlock said he was going to kill him off.

"I think he probably drowns his sorrows at night," she said, recomposing herself, "when he's obviously missing Mary, but he'd keep himself busy during the day."

Rose remembered encountering John the night before Sherlock's funeral. She had come around to Baker Street to pay her respects. That visit had taken a turn for the worst. Best not dwell on that. But something John had said during their conversation gave her a clue as to his plans for the future. He had told her that after Sherlock's funeral, he would move out of Baker Street. Possibly live with his sister.

"I think he'd want to change things," Rose said. "He may eventually move house, get a job somewhere else, but they're huge changes. He'll change the small things first."

"Like get a new therapist?"

"Possibly. But I don't think he'll want to show he's not coping. He definitely won't tell anyone about it. I don't know how you'll find out who he's seeing. Don't tell me Sherlock wants to visit them as well?"

"Nope, just needs to know 'is whereabouts..." Billy said, trailing off as his eyes scanned the screen. "'e'll 'ave-ta make an appointment during 'is lunch hours or the weekends," he murmured.

"He'll want to spend time with Rosie on the weekends," Sherlock said behind Rose, startling her. She hadn't heard the door slide open. "So, lunchtime appointments it is then."

Sherlock strode in, shoving down his dressing gown sleeve, the air rippling around him.

"Ah, tea, thank you."

Since his tea had now gone tepid, it was no surprise that Sherlock was able to down it one go. But knots formed in Rose's stomach.

"So. John," he said, now pacing the rug.

He seemed just a little…

Rose's heart sank. Of course he was. Wired. While she and Billy were sitting in the living area chatting, he'd quietly had another hit in the kitchen. That's why he took so long to appear.

"Of course there's always a chance he'll move in with his sister," Sherlock went on. "Good point about him wanting to change everything," he added, sweeping a hand in Rose's general direction. "But he won't want to stay with Harry if she's got that wagon thing happening again."

"Wagon?" Rose asked.

"On the wagon. Or off. Whatever. Harry's an alcoholic. Must remember to send her a ten pack of gin and tonic from Tesco. That'll keep John from choosing her as an option."

"What? You're sending an al—"

"It's only a matter of time before she goes on another binge. I'm just—"

"That's so cruel!"

"I do what I can."

Rose watched him pace. Sherlock had brought his hands up to his mouth, palms together, as he about-faced. Rose's insides were all churned up. She didn't like him right now. Cold, hard arrogance seeped from him. It made it so hard for her to want to stay here and help him.

"What's John's whereabouts got to do with your case?" she asked him.

"Were you even listening back there?" he asked, stopping in his tracks and gesturing toward the back of the flat. "Solve the case, save John," he said cryptically.

Rose's face hardened. There was always a case, and John and drugs. Why did the three have to go together? And why couldn't Sherlock ever see how much harm he was doing to himself in the process?

Sherlock had strode to the window and was peering out onto the street. Rose awkwardly pushed herself out of the armchair. She needed to stretch. Her stomach was tight. There was hardly anywhere to recline comfortably. Perhaps the sofa, or Sherlock's bed, or maybe she just needed a long walk.

"There," said Billy. "A list of therapists close to Doctor Watson's surgery, so he can ride 'is bike there."

"Excellent," Sherlock said, turning from the window. "Why was I looking out the window?"

Rose picked up her tea cup, straightened up and rubbed her back.

"Oh, good. You're going," Sherlock said, walking towards her. "I need you to—"

"I'm not going. I just need to lie down."

"Well, lie down at your place. I want you to ask Bob something."

"Can't you ring him?" Rose said, striding through to the kitchen and depositing her cup onto the counter. When she returned, Sherlock was waiting for her, his brow furrowed.

"No," he said. "GCHQ may be listening in, and these are the exact type of keywords they monitor me for."

"They monitor you? What keywords?"

"Tell Bob to bring me half a dozen of his miniature recording devices."

Rose didn't like to ask what for. She drew in a steadying breath.

"I won't be going home til it gets dark," she told him.

"No," Sherlock said. And Rose was surprised when he placed gentle hands on her shoulders, but then he turned her to face the door. "There's no one out there that shouldn't be. That's why I was looking out the window. One part of my brain is faster than the other. It's safe for you to leave now."

He gave Rose a gentle push towards the landing, but she turned around to face him.

"I need my things."

Sherlock immediately left her, and made for the back of the flat. Rose supposed she could do with a walk anyway.

When Sherlock returned with her bag and coat, she said, "I'll be back later tonight." She hoped he'd get the message she was still going to be supportive, despite his current demeanour.

"No, Rose. I just want Bob. Don't come back here. In fact, you should return to Edinburgh. Scott Williams is about to take a nasty fall in Seoul, and you should be there to receive the news."

Rose's heart stuttered and her throat constricted. He was still alive!

"No, wait," she said, striving to keep her tears at bay. "Just hold off on that for a while."

"Why?"

"Because… if… if you're going to kill him," she said, locking moist eyes on Sherlock's cold, grey ones, "just wait until after the baby's born."

Sherlock blinked, as if to keep back his own emotions. But in a split second, the icy façade was back again.

"What difference will that make?" he asked.

"It will make the world of difference to a small child. I just want one photo of Scott Williams holding his baby daughter. Just one. A keepsake for her." Rose's voice was fraying at the edges, nerves shattering. Sherlock turned from her.

"Fine. Now leave," he said, waving a dismissive hand as he left the living room for the kitchen.

Rose let one tear drop, which she hastily wiped from her cheek. She turned to her friend, who was frowning at the screen again.

"See you later, Billy," she said, adding a false cheeriness to her voice.

"Uh, yeah, Rosie," Billy said, rising from his seat. He enveloped her in a bear hug, and it was all Rose could do to stop from dissolving into a puddle of tears.

Without another word, she made for the stairs.

Scott Williams had a stay of execution. Four weeks until the baby arrived; three weeks for Sherlock to solve his bloody case. There was still hope for them!


	97. You Know I'm a Killer

_Unappealing swill_. Sherlock prodded the sausage, then dipped his index finger into the tomato sauce the baked beans swam in. He sucked the sauce off the end of his finger. _There. Consider me breakfasted._

"Here's your breakfast, Billy," he told his companion. Such was the fate of every dish Mrs Hudson delivered. What was she trying to do? Fatten him up so he resembled his brother, circa 1995? Sherlock didn't eat while he was on a case. Surely the woman knew that by now.

Billy finished hanging up another printout of Culverton Smith before taking a seat at the living room table.

"Thanks, mate," he said.

Sherlock sank into his armchair and looked about him as his assistant tucked in. There were still quite a few gaps about the place that should be filled with the image of the man who was supposed to command his attention. Gaps in Sherlock's line of sight were a strange bedfellow of hallucination. Gaps could produce a vision of Rose at any moment.

Real or imagined, she still posed a problem for him. In the stark light of day, if he wasn't high, the wound in his heart still gaped and festered. And if Rose was around when his body was going through such physiological torments, it became easier and easier to snap at her, since she was the obvious cause. At night, however, her presence, false or not, was most welcome. He slept far better if she (or the apparition) pressed soft kisses to his brow and slotted into his side, curling her arms around him, her light breath tickling his neck. Her scent wafted into his nostrils and his fingers dove into the silky strands of apple-pear-scented hair. His torments were eased for several hours.

"Need more over there." He pointed towards the doorway. "In fact, a whole string of them," he added, gesturing across the room. He jiggled his feet. He needed a coffee. But he'd wait until Billy finished his breakfast.

"How many days until CASK Day?" he asked Billy.

"Three," was the reply, spoken in a mouth full of beans kind of way.

Three days. Good. It couldn't come soon enough.

* * *

Rose waved one final time to Adrian and Indira as they set off down the path through the St George's Fields manicured garden. She turned and slipped back inside the flat. Breathing in the silent air, she closed her eyes. Though she loved her friends, Adrian and Indira as a couple brought a kind of chaotic busyness to Rose's mostly solitary existence.

Right, better get moving, she thought. She had a few minutes in which to freshen up, before meeting her 'pregnant and new mum's' group at a café in South Kensington for morning tea.

Halfway up the stairs, her phone rang. It was Justine.

"Your visitors left?" her friend, neighbour, birthing partner and security detail asked.

"Yes, just," Rose said, laughing a little. "You must've heard them, surely?"

"I'll come round and get the baby's room sorted again."

"They'll be back on Monday," Rose said, puffing a little as she climbed the stairs.

"I thought they were off to Paris?"

"Just for a few days, then they'll be back for a day before heading north again."

Rose reached the top of the stairs and held onto the banister while she caught her breath.

"I'll pop over anyway," Justine said. "Straighten it out in case the baby arrives in the meantime."

"We won't need it straight away… okay, fine."

Rose didn't have the energy to argue with her. She and Justine had attended birthing classes together, and Justine advocated having everything prepared just in case Rose went into labour. Her hospital bag had been packed for weeks. Rose's due date was still a week away, but Justine had quite correctly pointed out that babies arrived when they were ready. In Rose's mother's group, out of the five of them, two had now given birth, and they were the women whose due dates were after Rose's.

Rose stood in the doorway of the nursery and surveyed the mess her friends had left behind.

Since Adrian and Indira had hooked up one sleazy Saturday night and entered into a relationship in Edinburgh (spawned, no doubt, by the fact they had a mutual friend in Rose) they had decided to spend Indira's uni break visiting London. And yes, Rose had said she'd have no room for visitors after the baby arrived, not thinking they'd take that as advice to come _before_ the baby arrived.

Well, it had all worked out in the end. Their company this last week had been a welcome distraction. Showing them the sights of London, and taking them out to dinner to introduce them to her clubbing friends—since Rose didn't want to go to nightclubs in her condition—had made the days bearable. And having Adrian as a friend, rather than whatever he thought they should be was a huge bonus. Still, over the week, she caught him gazing thoughtfully at her abdomen. Did he still think there was a possibility the baby was his?

Rose sighed as she mentally listed what she had to do. Fold the sheets, put them aside for when her visitors returned. Let the air out of the mattress. Fold it up, squish it into the back of the closet. Move the cot and change table back…

"Don't you dare," came Justine's voice behind her.

Rose left Justine to rearrange the room with only minimal protesting on her part. And she told Justine that yes, she had noticed the new sleepsuits that the woman had sneakily stowed in the drawers.

"Well, they were on sale," Justine said, a smile tugging at her lips. "Oh, and don't forget this. In case Kaitlyn comes to your morning tea with her new one."

Justine handed Rose the present she'd bought her mother's group friend whose baby had been born Friday last—a bathing set. Rose would've forgotten it. She was getting more absentminded the further along she was in her pregnancy.

She left the nursery for her bedroom, changed into her favourite maternity dress—the striped, ribbed one—swept up her hair, then applied a light dusting of makeup. She was interrupted by a text from Lisa. Her former tutoring student was in a bit of a panic about starting her new course in Liverpool at the end of the month. Rose wondered if she could squeeze in another tutoring session with Lisa before the week was out. Well, why not. All good distractions from Sherlock and his condition.

She quickly sent back, _Counselling 101 tomorrow afternoon?_ Rose smiled to herself. Lisa was a capable student. They'd probably spend most of their 'session' talking about babies and Lisa's own labour experience instead.

As she crossed the landing, she called out to Justine that she was going.

"And I might pop over to Baker Street afterwards," she added, making for the stairs.

"No, you bloody well will not," Justine said, swiftly exiting the nursery. "No more stress before the baby's born. It's not doing you any good."

"Not knowing how he is will cause me more stress."

Justine set her lips into a thin line.

"You should take it easy while you've got the place to yourself again. Promise me you won't go round there today."

The former special agent could look quite murderous when she wanted to.

"Fine," Rose said, turning towards the stairs. Not today then, she thought. But perhaps…

As she descended, Rose reviewed her plans for the rest of the week: a checkup with her midwife tomorrow morning, coffee with Lisa in the afternoon, and dinner with her ex co-worker, Sunil, and his partner Thursday night. So, maybe Friday morning was do-able. Justine had a yoga class at eleven, so Rose could slip out then.

Rose hadn't seen Sherlock for almost two weeks. The last time, she'd visited after 11pm on a Saturday night, when the streets were busier and she wouldn't stand out in a crowd. Billy had let her in, he said, only because "Shezza's asleep" which meant less of a chance Sherlock would yell at him for allowing Rose to enter.

Rose had curled up beside Sherlock in his bed and he'd banded his arms around her automatically. They slept like that, limbs entwined, just like old times, until Rose's alarm woke her at 4am. She slipped out of the flat into the darkness once more.

_Friday morning it is, then._

* * *

Heavy limbs, aching joints, bright light, throbbing head. Business as usual.

Annoying voice.

"Shezza, wake up! It's CASK Day!"

Sherlock's eyes refused to snap open. He pried the heavy lids apart and stared up at Billy's hazy form.

"What?" he croaked.

"CASK Day. This is it."

Billy thrust a piece paper in front of Sherlock's face. What looked like a blurry, hand-drawn map of the London Underground gradually came into focus. The squiggly lines, red crossings out, and purposeful arrows were all too familiar to Sherlock. It was their plan of attack. Plans and predictions.

"We're 'ere," Billy said, pointing to one strand. Along this timeline, there had been no crossing out. These scenarios had all panned out, leading to this very day, CASK Day. Billy had thought up the acronym. Brilliant.

Sherlock squinted at the writing above Billy's fingertip.

"What's 'LL'?" he asked, pulling himself upright.

"Landlady."

"Right."

Landlady. Scare the bejesus out of Mrs Hudson, so she would take dramatic action against him. Sherlock remembered that now.

He swung his legs off the bed as Billy gave him room.

After vigorously rubbing his scalp, Sherlock asked, "Where's my gun?"

"Ah… maybe 'ave some coffee, first. You've got time. And when I say 'coffee', I actually mean—"

"I know what you mean. I'd prefer tea first. And a line of coke. The old-fashioned way."

"'ey. Hang on."

Sherlock had little time and patience to explain. Lethargy was the enemy here. He required just the right amount of mania and aggression in his performance to shock his audience of one.

Sherlock staggered into his ensuite bathroom to freshen up. One glance at his watch told him it was just after eleven thirty. Almost lunch time. They'd better get moving then.

Sherlock entered the kitchen to find that Billy had a syringe waiting for him. No cup of tea. No line of coke.

"Sorry, Shezza, but this mix 'as worked well for us this last fortnight. A higher percentage of cocaine."

"I wanted a cup of tea," Sherlock said, scowling, before reaching for the syringe. Just this last one. Because it was CASK Day and he needed to focus.

* * *

Rose rubbed her back before she reached out and pressed the buzzer for 221A. Perhaps she shouldn't have walked all this way.

"Oh, hello, love," Mrs Hudson said.

"Hello, Mrs Hudson," Rose said, forcing a smile to her face. "I know you're not supposed to let me in, but I just wanted to—"

"You'd better come in," the landlady said, her mouth turning down at the corners. She opened the door wider and stepped aside. As Rose entered, Mrs Hudson added, "I don't think he's in a good way."

Rose's breath hitched a little as panic rippled through her.

"Why, what's happened?"

Mrs Hudson shut the front door behind them. She clasped her hands together as she addressed Rose at the bottom of the stairs.

"I thought he was going to be okay," the landlady began. "He's been eating his dinners at least. But he's a bit obsessed with that fellow on the telly. Pictures everywhere. The whole place is a mess!"

"Okay," Rose said, feeling marginally better. At least Sherlock hadn't ended up in hospital. Yet. "I'll go up and see if he wants to talk about it."

"Are you sure you want to do that in your condition? Should you even be working? You're due any day now, aren't you?"

"I'll be fine," Rose replied, smiling briefly before turning for the stairs.

Each step still filled her with dread and she paused on the landing to stretch her ribcage. There was no room left inside for her lungs to expand. Come on, she thought, rubbing her belly this time. It did little to alleviate the discomfort. To top it all off, her legs, or more specifically, her thighs, were feeling heavy.

Rose gaped a little when she entered Sherlock's living room. Mrs Hudson was right. Pictures of Culverton Smith had exploded around the room. Sherlock and Billy stood by the living room table, discussing something that lay in front of them.

"She's going to need it to force me into her car," Sherlock said, his voice dripping with condescension. "Why would I voluntarily go otherwise?"

"But not a loaded one," Billy retorted.

"Then I'll empty it first."

Sherlock lifted up the object. The gleam of metal caught Rose's eye. A gun! Sherlock turned towards the sofa at the back of the living room, his arm outstretched. Rose gasped as he took aim and said, "The wall could do with some more—"

Sherlock stopped suddenly, his eyes flicking to Rose. He slowly lowered his arm as Billy turned around.

"What's she doing here?" Sherlock snapped. He dropped the gun onto the table with a clatter and added, "She's going to ruin everything." He turned his back on them, moved towards his armchair, but didn't sit down. With a hand resting lightly on one hip, Sherlock bowed his head before running fingers through his curls.

"I… I'm not sure I like what you've done with the place," Rose said, struggling to maintain an even tone.

"Rosie," said Billy.

Her friend hastily retrieved the gun from the table, awkwardly concealing it behind his back before he approached her.

"Y'can't be 'ere today," he said sternly. "It's CASK Day."

"What?"

"CASK Day. Catch A Serial Killer. I made it up m'self."

Rose shook her head as Billy beamed at her. She didn't have the patience for Sherlock and Billy's delusional detective games today.

"Sherlock," she said, bypassing Billy.

"Not today," Sherlock muttered, throwing his head toward the ceiling as if pleading to the heavens.

"I just want to talk to you," she said.

Sherlock heaved a sigh before turning to her. Before he could speak, however, movement in the kitchen caught his eye.

"Where are you going with my gun?" he called out. He brushed past Rose and made for the kitchen.

Billy stood in front of the passageway leading to the back of the flat.

"I said I don't think you should let a nice old lady threaten you with a loaded firearm," Billy said. "It ain't safe."

Sherlock stopped at the edge of the kitchen, as if they were having a stand off.

"And I said it won't be loaded."

"For God's sake, you two," Rose said. "What's going on?"

"You see, this," Sherlock said, pointing to Rose while his gaze was still locked on Billy. "This is what you bring to the table. Get rid of her."

"No, Sherlock," Rose said, her skin beginning to prickle. But she remained composed when Sherlock turned to her, his expression hardening. "This," she continued, gesturing to the pictures strung above her. "This isn't good. We should talk."

"Nobody asked you. Why are you even here? There's nothing for us to talk about. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to ignore you for the next few minutes."

"I'm not leaving until you talk to me properly."

His eyes locked on hers, narrowing slightly. If he was going to stare her down, it wasn't going to work. This pretend hatred wasn't fooling anyone. She'd heard his sleepy murmur of 'I love you' in the stillness of his bedroom one night. It just about broke her heart.

"Hmm," he said, his brow drawn down in an exaggerated expression of contemplation. "Now what's your worst nightmare? I know. Nosy journalists snooping into the background of a woman who was seen leaving Sherlock Holmes's abode. What will they uncover, do you think? Let me tweet something that will get half a dozen journalists parked outside my front door. Good luck getting out anonymously after they arrive."

Rose was momentarily speechless as Sherlock strode over to the living room table and sat down behind his computer. Was he really going to tweet something about her?

"Shezza," Billy said, striding through the kitchen towards them.

"Let's see," Sherlock said, tapping away as he spoke. " _Culverton Smith. He's a serial killer! Hashtag—hiding in plain sight._ " He pressed _Enter_ with a flourish. "That'll get the press 'round, wanting a comment."

Rose's abdomen tightened and she reflexively rubbed a soothing hand over it. As Sherlock vacated his seat, his eyes dropped to her hand before he turned for the window. Rose didn't know whether to burst into tears or throttle the man. He really was a bastard. Why was she even here?

"You have approximately eleven minutes before the first vultures swoop," he said, parting the curtains and looking out onto the street. "I'd leave now, if I were you."

She would. She ought to. The pressure on her tear ducts was enormous. But she had a duty of care, didn't she? She had prior knowledge of a man going off the rails. She could just hide out here all night until the press grew restless and left. She had to stay put for the moment. Sort this out.

Swallowing the lump in her throat, Rose said, "I'm not letting you go anywhere with a gun."

Sherlock's face lit up in a half-smile. His eyes twinkled in ridicule.

"You think I'm taking a gun with me? Do you think I'm going to shoot Culverton Smith in the head, like I did Charles Magnussen?"

"Shezza."

Sherlock's words buzzed in Rose's ears along with the warning note in Billy's. What did he just say?

Rose froze, her eyes widening as Sherlock glanced toward the kitchen where Billy must've been standing, behind her.

"Oh," Sherlock said slowly, as if catching on. "You don't know about Magnussen, do you?"

Rose opened her mouth, but no words came out. She couldn't take her eyes off Sherlock's. She was waiting for an explanation, for him to say he was only joking, but Sherlock just shrugged.

"I don't have time for this," he said, sweeping past her. "Billy can explain later over a joint. He's more articulate when stoned. Now, where did you put it."

Rose turned around slowly, her emotions see-sawing. Sherlock strode to the back of the kitchen, but Billy hadn't moved from the doorway into the living area. He was no longer holding Sherlock's gun, she observed, but he was still watching Rose, a hint of panic on his face.

Tears pooled in Rose's eyes, because Billy's expression didn't deny Sherlock's claim.

" _Where is it_!" Sherlock yelled from the vicinity of his bedroom. " _You just had it!_ "

"Rosie," Billy said, moving towards her. "You should go."

The air was rapidly thickening around her. Although he was closer, Billy's words sounded distant, while Sherlock's pierced the air.

" _Did you eat it!_ " he yelled, now from the bedroom, where bedcovers flew off the bed onto the floor.

Rose slowly shook her head. She didn't know what she was supposed to do. As she continued staring towards the back of the flat, she could see the now familiar gleam of the gun on top of the fridge.

"C'mon, Rosie," Billy said, gently guiding her towards the door. "I can explain it all later."

Rose walked with Billy to the landing, since her mind hadn't come up with an alternative way to respond.

"' _For he today that sheds his blood with me shall be my brother! Be he ne'er so vile!'_ " came Sherlock's harsh voice from the back of the flat.

"Ah, you'd better go quick smart," Billy said. "'e's quotin' 'enry the fifth now. It's gonna get messy. I'll take care of it."

What the hell? thought Rose, but she did as Billy had bid her as sounds of furniture being shoved aside and items falling to the floor emanated down the stairwell.

Tears pooled but remained unshed and her whole body trembled with shock. Sherlock had… shot—and killed—Charles Magnussen? When Rose reached the ground floor, she was met by a concerned Mrs Hudson, who had just emerged from her kitchen.

" _Get back in here now, Wiggins!_ "

"What on earth is…" the landlady began. "Oh. Are you all right, love?"

"I'm… fine," Rose said, wiping at her eyes. "But I can't…"

" _Where is it!_ "

"Sorry," Rose said, her voice breaking. "I can't… I can't do anything for him."

Rose left Mrs Hudson at the base of the stairs and strode to the front door. Muffled yells and crashes continued to drift down the stairwell as Rose escaped into the street, her heart beating furiously.

She barely remembered the ride home by cab. Much quicker than catching the tube and having to walk from the station to St George's Fields. She did remember rubbing her belly during the journey to stop it feeling so tight, not that her efforts had any effect at all. Scenery drifted by the cab window while Rose was lost in thought. She tried to recall everything she knew about Charles Augustus Magnussen's death. Was it covered up then?

Her mind went around in circles, yielding nothing.

Once home, she unlocked the door to her flat just as Justine came striding up the path.

"All right, Rose?" she said.

Rose couldn't get inside fast enough. Leaving the door ajar, since she knew Justine would follow her in, Rose made a swift bid for the sofa.

"Rose, what's wrong?"

Concern was written all over Justine's face. Rose knew she must look a sight, but she refused to cry again.

"I… I just needed to lie down," she replied, kicking off her shoes. She was lying on her side which did nothing to alleviate the pain in her back and thighs, nor the pressure on her abdomen.

"You're looking very peaky," Justine offered.

"I've just been on my feet all morning. My back's a bit…"

"Your back?"

Justine seemed to pounce on her words.

"It's nothing," Rose said. "I just walked too far. That's all. Actually…" Rose struggled to sit up, prompting Justine to grab her under the elbow. "I just need to pee… again."

"How far did you walk?"

Rose continued to the back of the flat.

"Rose?" Justine prompted.

"Baker Street," Rose said, stopping in the alcove before the ground floor toilet and turning to face Justine. "Yes, I went to see Sherlock," she said, exhaling deeply.

"And you look awful. He's got you all stressed again, hasn't he?"

Rose's abdomen tightened and the dull ache she'd been feeling in her thighs also intensified. She rubbed a hand across her stomach and grimaced.

"What's wrong?" Justine said urgently.

"Nothing," Rose swiftly replied.

"Did you just have…"

"No."

Rose's throat tightened and she could feel a flush creeping across her cheeks.

"Oh, love! If you're not in early labour—"

"I'm not!" Rose straightened up and attempted to recompose herself with a steadying breath. "It's a backache, that's all," she said pointedly. "I slept awkwardly last night."

Justine's expression softened.

"Well, I'll make you a cuppa tea. Why don't you have a shower and a lie down? I'll fix you some lunch—"

"Justine. Don't fuss."

Justine's half-smile grew as she approached. Taking Rose by the hands, she said, "I think we're going to have a baby soon, love. If not today, then definitely tomorrow. I woke with back pain one morning, and I ignored it all day long! I woke at midnight with full on contractions! You mark my words! You're in labour!"

Rose swallowed hard. She felt herself clenching Justine's hands back. There was no way she could have a baby now. It was too soon. She wasn't ready. This was the worst possible time to bring their daughter into the world. The man she had loved with every fibre of her being, who had proven to her time and again what a caring and thoughtful partner he was, whom she imagined would excel at this parenting business, that man; he had completely about-faced. He could only say he loved her when he was in a half-state between sleep and wakefulness. He was a drug addict, and worse: a murderer. He would never be ready for fatherhood.

.


	98. Keeping Off the Sweeties

"Our priority, Mr Holmes, is to manage pain and avoid withdrawal," the consultant told Mycroft in her clipped tones.

Just shut up, the lot of you, Sherlock thought, wincing from the vice–like grip the migraine had on his head.

"And as I've already stated," came Mycroft's voice laced with the full weight of Her Majesty's Security Services, "my brother is not to be administered opiate-based pain medication."

Fuck off, Mycroft.

Sherlock rolled to his side, a difficult manoeuvre given the kicking in the ribs he'd received at the hand of one medical professional, but it was a feeble attempt to move away from the conversation that was taking place in the doorway to his room.

"…the risk of conflict with our staff," another voice said.

The voices waffled on and on. Sherlock only tuned in every so often. Even though it was two against one, Mycroft's argument was the only one where the statements gave the underlying suggestion of simultaneous lawsuits and exiles to Siberia. It was a lost cause. The hospital's acute pain management policies with regard to a patient with an addiction disorder were lost to him. No assignment of a personal addictions nurse who would individualise a pain management plan for him; no smooth transitioning from acute pain management to ongoing management of his substances misuse. All nice words. Comforting, anaesthetising words.

Not for him. He was now on the receiving end of a blunt detox stick. Beaten over the head with it, in fact! No more opioid-based analgesics for this junkie!

Sherlock clenched his fists, curling into the pain that rippled through his abdomen. Beads of sweat lined his forehead. Couldn't they move their fucking meeting to the passageway?

Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut as another wave of nausea battered him.

It was a power move by Mycroft to insist that _this_ was his office, rather than agree to have the discussion where the hospital hierarchy felt comfortable. It was a statement reminiscent of… Magnussen.

Sherlock's stomach lurched and he lunged for the bowl on the bedside table.

This should shut them up.

As his stomach clenched and squeezed, forcing vile liquid up and out, Sherlock knew the room had cleared. When there was nothing left, he retched a couple more times.

"There's water here, if you need it," a familiar voice told him. A caring voice. Nurse Cornish.

Perhaps she would be so kind as to switch his intravenous drip with something from the top shelf. She was a fan, after all. He could hydrate himself orally, and luxuriate in the best the hospital had to offer as he had done when he was first admitted.

After the excitement of catching a serial killer had died down, and he'd given his statement to Lestrade, parried insults with Mycroft, and exchanged "where do we stand with each other now" looks with John, Sherlock was left with only the comedown as his companion.

He fell limply back onto the bed. Every joint, every muscle wrenched in pain.

Fucking Mycroft.

Interfering busybody.

Sherlock knew the worst was still to come.

* * *

"I've never killed a pregnant woman before," came Culverton Smith's lava-fuelled voice, hot and thick in Sherlock's ear. It rippled with barely contained excitement. "Which way do you cut, do you think?" he asked Sherlock, holding up the scalpel. "Along the grain, or across it?"

"No," Sherlock whimpered. But he was powerless. His eyes widened in fear. Didn't anybody know Culverton had escaped custody and was now after their baby?

"It'll be painless, I promise," the killer assured him. "She won't feel a thing. You can watch if you like."

Sherlock's limbs were heavy, his vision blurred. He couldn't move or call out. Culverton's laughter echoed around him. Rose was nowhere to be seen. Had she given birth or hadn't she? Had Culverton Smith killed both mother and child? Where were the reinforcements?

Hammers smashed his bones to smithereens, reassembled them only to fasten them to a stretching rack. He drowned in his own sweat, ligaments ripped out of his body and entwined around joints, strangling them. Day turned to night. Faces loomed, laughed, scolded.

On the one hundredth day of torture, or so it felt like, Sherlock woke to a someone's light humming and an instrument probing his ear.

"Much better," came Nurse Cornish's voice. "D'you think you might be up for some breakfast this morning? I think you're over the worst of it."

"Fetch me my coat, my phone, and fifty milligrams of your finest Naltrexone," he said, his voice like gravel.

Cornish laughed lightly.

"Oh, we are feeling better. How about some toast? You must be hungry. Mr Holmes, your brother, wants you home today, so I expect Doctor Arami will be in to see you shortly."

"I still have a headache," Sherlock said petulantly. Just the mere mention of his brother prompted his blood pressure to rise.

"I'll fetch you some paracetamol. So, was that a yes for the toast?"

Sherlock gave a faint nod. He stared at the ceiling while Nurse Cornish updated his chart. What had she said? He wasn't over the worst of it. The worst was that he had to exist in this world and now had to be entirely lucid for it.

Remnants of his nightmarish hallucinations still sat with him, namely Rose and… the baby.

Was she still pregnant? How long had she been pregnant for? Every time she visited Baker Street, she looked just about term, but not ready to pop. Except for that last visit. He _had_ noticed something, but had dismissed it, just like he'd been dismissing her for weeks.

Sherlock's heart sank. Her abdomen had dropped. That was it. The baby's head had engaged. He'd done his research—in happier times. He knew what this meant. Still, labour could be weeks away.

"Okay, then," Nurse Cornish said, putting the chart back and making for the door.

"What's today's date?" he asked her.

"Oh… it's Sunday."

"The what?"

"The thirteenth. You've been here since Friday."

Nurse Cornish smiled briefly before she left.

 _The thirteenth_. Their baby's due date was the sixteenth! He still had time! Or did he? He knew how these things worked. Most babies were born on either side of their due dates. He was still in with a chance. A slim chance, perhaps.

For what? To be with Rose during labour? After everything he'd said and done? But it was her fault, really. She should've hightailed it to Edinburgh after the voice message he'd left her. She should never have been here to witness his fall—to be a recipient of his anger. He'd treated her appallingly. Did he really think she'd allow him to be there?

But she had kept coming back. She had laughed when he told her he didn't love her anymore. She curled up beside him in bed. Showered him with soft kisses. That _was_ Rose, wasn't it? Not some figment of his imagination. And what was their last encounter like? Business as usual? Or…

_Oh, dear God, no!_

The realisation hit him like a bolt of lightning. He'd told her about Magnussen.

Sherlock's veins filled with ice. His mind tried to pinpoint the exact moment he had confessed to shooting Magnussen. What had been Rose's reaction? He didn't know! Hadn't really noticed, except to observe that she was stunned. He'd been too distracted searching for his gun! So, how would Rose react to that revelation?

Sherlock's breath came in short bursts. He had to tell her he was sorry. Sorry about everything. He didn't mean any of it. He wanted her back. He wanted that life again—to love and be loved. And a baby! Their baby! He told her he'd be there for the birth. Promised her!

His heart rate was accelerating now.

"Here we are," Nurse Cornish said, re-entering the room holding a tiny cup. His paracetamol, most likely.

"I-I need my phone," Sherlock said.

"Oh."

She placed the cup onto the bedside table and looked about her before realisation dawned. "Ah, Mr Sm—" She cut herself off, not wanting to say the hateful name, most probably, then drew her lips in a thin line. She tried again. "He took your belongings away, didn't he? Let me just go and see where they might have ended up."

Sherlock closed his eyes in an effort to calm himself down. Rose would hate him. Absolutely despise him. He was a murderer. He didn't deserve her. She had every right to exclude him from her life now.

But that's what he originally wanted, wasn't it? It wasn't safe for her to be around him. That's what he'd decided. He'd pushed her away because he wanted to protect her. Protect _them_ from the dangers that came with his particular lifestyle. Why had he changed his mind about it now?

_Because I nearly died._

His breath caught in his throat as the very real memory of having the life force squeezed from his body came to the forefront of his mind. He couldn't breathe. He wasn't strong enough to save himself. Culverton Smith's eyes had locked on his. Those disturbing eyes weren't the last ones he had ever wanted to see. He didn't want to die! He had to see her one last time. Explain everything.

But that wasn't even the first time he'd been close to death. He remembered his heart leaping to his mouth standing on top of Bart's hospital. There was always the risk of dying during that stunt. And he didn't count the time he actually had died by Mary's hand. That had happened too quickly and he had no real memory of it. No time to dwell on what he was leaving behind. There were countless times his life had been on the line during his stint abroad and past drug misuse, so why the anxiety now?

Was it because he was finally tethered to someone? Not in the same way that he had bonded with John Watson. With Rose it was mind, body and soul—if he believed in such a thing. And they had created a new little person together. How had he thought his only course of action was to banish her from his life? To make her hate him? What had he been thinking?

It was too late. There was no going back. Sherlock had made the biggest mistake of his life and he had to suffer the consequences. He would have to live with this gaping wound in his heart.

Pressure built up behind his sinuses. Live with it. He squeezed the bridge of his nose, his eyes still clamped shut. As a wave of regret enveloped him, drowning his heart, he choked out a sob.

"Oh."

Sherlock was jolted back to reality by the female voice. He opened his eyes. Unshed tears blurred his vision. Not the right shape for Nurse Cornish. The woman was holding something draped over one arm. Sherlock knew that posture.

He blinked to refocus and wiped at his eyes.

"Sorry," said Molly Hooper. "I… I thought you were asleep." She repositioned herself, looking at him with wide eyes. Dammit. Molly had caught him in a vulnerable state again!

"What are you doing here?" he snapped, then immediately regretted it.

"Um… Mycroft asked me to… he said you might need this. A change of clothes." She gestured to the suit bag unnecessarily. "Because you're being discharged today."

Sherlock's gaze dropped to the bag slung over her arm then back to Molly again.

"But why did _you_ bring it?"

"Because… I'm riding home with you. An escort." She smiled uneasily. "Mycroft's got a car…"

Sherlock's gaze remained stony. He didn't know why he was being such a prick to her. Oh, yes he did. There was no dopamine left in his system, thanks to the two day detox. None at all. And he had nothing to feel happy about. Not anymore.

"And Mycroft wanted to make sure I didn't stop at some East End drug den on the way home?" he said, waving a flippant hand.

"Something like that," Molly said with a rueful smile. "So, I'll just leave this here," she added, draping the suit bag over the end of the bed. "I'll wait outside. The nurse said she was looking for your coat."

She turned to leave.

"Wait," he said. He inhaled deeply as Molly faced him, her brow furrowed. "Why did you come?"

She blinked, obviously taken aback by his penetrating gaze.

"Because Mycroft ask—"

"Mycroft could've had his driver bring my clothes up. I want to know why _you're_ here."

Molly regarded him for a moment, and then, as if by some internal force, she stood taller. It was so subtle a gesture that a less observant mind would've missed it.

"Because I care, Sherlock," she said, her eyes locking onto his. "We all do. We're friends. You've been through a traumatic experience, and… and…"

"Are we friends?"

She looked at him, her brows arching in puzzlement.

"Yes."

"And how is that working out for you?" He couldn't quite keep the bitterness from his voice. Just what was he doing, exactly?

"What?"

"I can think of many times you've done favours for me, Molly. Supplied me with take-home parts for my experiments, allowed me free rein in the lab, faked my own death..."

Molly gaped a little, but offered no response.

"So," continued Sherlock, "the question I have for you is: what have I ever done for you?"

Molly's clenched her jaw, her eyes narrowing.

"Why are you asking me this?"

Bands tightened around Sherlock's chest. He felt everything drawing inwards. It was a defensive mechanism which allowed him to strike out when necessary.

"We're friends," he said. "You said so yourself. How am I a friend to you? Have I ever done you any favours?"

Molly folded her arms in front of her. Her own defensive position. Did she know he was getting ready to strike?

"Well… you… you once spent all night looking for Toby."

"Toby. Your cat, Toby."

"Yes."

"As I recall, I was using your flat as a bolt hole, and I carelessly let him out."

"Yes. And you felt awful about it, so you spent all night searching the neighbourhood, while Toby sat on a window ledge and watched you."

A smile played on Molly's lips, but it wasn't quite enough to pull Sherlock out of the depressive quagmire into which he was slowly sinking.

"I don't deserve your friendship or anyone else's. I have no idea how to be a friend. My idea of helping a friend through grieving for his wife is to binge on a cocktail of drugs and take on a serial killer. How does that even qualify?"

Molly's expression softened.

"You're not like everyone else, Sherlock. You know that. And everything you do has a reason behind it. Your... your friends are people who know you better than anyone else. We know you care."

Sherlock folded his arms across his chest and stared pointedly at the edge of the bed, avoiding Molly's gaze, effectively dismissing her.

"I sometimes help Mrs Hudson record shows on her FreeSat box," she went on, her voice quavering slightly in that way Molly had when she was bristling with emotion. "But you… you'll be there to throw somebody out the window if they cross her. I'm sure I can count on you if I… if I ever need someone thrown out of a window. We all do what we're capable of."

Sherlock's eyes widened at Molly's last example, extreme as it was. He was sure she was trying to lighten the mood, but he remained in a dark place. His landlady had only been roughed up by that American agent because Sherlock had invited danger into his flat.

"The people who are your friends are the people who get you," Molly said, her voice now unwavering. "And anyone who doesn't understand you doesn't count. Now get dressed." She gestured to the bag on the bed, before turning to leave. "I'll be outside."

On exiting through the doorway, she almost collided with Nurse Cornish.

"Oh, s-sorry."

Molly left without a backward glance, leaving Sherlock's mind in a whirl.

"Now you have a complete outfit," Cornish said, draping Sherlock's Belstaff over the suit bag. "I'm afraid your phone has no charge left. Not that you could use it in here. But you'll be out in a jiffy. That's nice, isn't it?"

Sherlock clenched his jaw and looked away, still smarting from Molly's semi-lecture. Nurse Cornish placed his phone on the table next to him.

"You won't need to wait for Doctor Arami to see you now," she added, clasping her hands together. "Doctor Watson has signed for your discharge. I don't know how that works, but the government seems to have endorsed it. Your brother likes to move things along, doesn't he?"

Nurse Cornish fussed about him, doing God only knew what, while Sherlock dwelled on Molly's words. Only those who knew him and understood him were his friends, and nobody else counted? Was that his view of the world? Did that mean those who knew him readily accepted all his flaws and every despicable act he'd ever committed? Where did that leave Rose? If she was one of these so-called few, did that mean she would also forgive him? Accept him the way he was?

But she _had_ been accepting. Mostly. Up to a point. His last confession, though. He still didn't know what the fallout would be from that one yet.

"I'll leave you to get dressed," Nurse Cornish said, finally vacating the room.

Sherlock eased out of bed and padded to the bathroom. He didn't want to shower here, so he freshened up by splashing his face. He regarded his dishevelled appearance. Bruising underneath his left eye, faded to a pale yellow. But more dramatically, a subconjunctival haemorrhage also in his left eye. _Nice one, John._

Sherlock dressed awkwardly and uncomfortably, still feeling dizzy from the limited amount of time he'd spent upright. But he'd deserved John's ire, hadn't he? Expected it. _Wanted_ it.

What would Rose think of his appearance? This was how low he had sunk. This brutal form of punishment had been carried out by his _best friend_.

_Tell me how that works in terms of friendship, Doctor Hooper._

Sherlock left the hospital with a minimum of fuss on anyone's part. Molly fell into step beside him, but she had no more insightful words for him either then or during the car journey. At the flat, Sherlock was thankful Mrs Hudson filled in the silences for them.

"Look what they did to my bloody sink!" she'd told him. Never mind the damage her lodger had inflicted on the flat in the last few weeks. Mrs H was on a rampage because Mycroft's people, in scrubbing out the kitchen sink, had scratched it up a little.

Molly and Mrs Hudson were happy to natter about Rosie for a bit, so Sherlock made excuses that he needed a bath. His phone was charging in the bedroom; he could hear messages pinging as he soaked. His heart tripped with every one. Finally, he could stand it no longer. He finished up in the bath, quietly dressed, then sank onto his bed, his device in hand.

Disappointingly, there were no messages, text or voice, from Rose, Bob or Justine. Surely, if she'd given birth, at least one of them would've contacted him? Sherlock's insides twisted. He still had a chance to be at his daughter's birth!

"I'm off, Sherlock," Molly said to him, standing in the open doorway.

Sherlock gave her a quiet nod and a half-smile in acknowledgement, his mind still on the radio silence from Rose's end.

"So, I'll see you tomorrow afternoon," she added.

"Yes," he said quickly, giving his head a slight shake to clear it. "Thank you."

He couldn't say what his thanks were for. Everything really. From Molly's understanding to her refusal to cower under his brief interrogation. For her _friendship_.

Her smile in return seemed to say it all, and she left Sherlock alone with his messages from potential clients and reporters—everybody, except the one he really cared to hear from.

Wearily, Sherlock left his room. Mrs Hudson was wiping down the kitchen counter.

"I'm making you a pot of chicken soup," she said. "They say detox is a bit like catching a cold."

Sherlock grimaced.

"It's nothing like catching a cold."

"Plenty of fluids, I always say."

Sherlock drifted into the living room and sank into his armchair. He placed his phone down beside him and watched as various messages from nobodies flicked by. He turned it over. It was depressing.

When Lestrade arrived, Sherlock had just finished consuming Mrs Hudson's Drug Addict's Special. Almost licked the bowl clean, in fact. He'd been starving!

"That was the most disturbing interview I've ever experienced," the D.I. said, almost swaying where he stood.

"You didn't have to come all this way to tell me that," Sherlock said. But in actual fact, he was relieved to have someone else whose voice could break the silence and take his mind off his worries in the way that his landlady's could not.

"No. Your brother's got me on the night shift," Lestrade declared, waving a limp hand towards Sherlock. "Anyway, you up for a pint?"

Sherlock furrowed his brow.

"I'm on the road to recovery," he told the D.I. "I'm pretty sure it's not supposed to be paved with pubs."

"Oh. Right. 'Course not."

Lestrade sank down into the chair opposite.

"How about a cuppa tea?" he said, lifting his brows in hope to Sherlock.

It gave Sherlock something to do, and he was grateful that the Scotland Yard detective wasn't going to assume the role of nurse maid. And Lestrade's recount of his "interrogation" with Culverton Smith, although disturbing, was an improvement on listening to Mrs Hudson's witless babble.

Sherlock couldn't stay up too late. He was still recovering and he needed his sleep. He thought he'd toss and turn all night, his mind as ever returning to Rose and impending labour, but the second his head hit the pillow, he fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

He slept in late, waking to find that Lestrade had been replaced by John. It was awkward, to say the least. John spent most of the time reading the newspaper, chatting to Mrs Hudson about Rosie, and eating the breakfast supplied by the landlady.

Sherlock sought relief from the silent tension by hiding in his bedroom, trying to work up the courage to ring or, at the very least, text Rose.

His thumb hovered over her contact details. What was he going to say to her? How should he even start?

Sherlock pressed _Call_ before he talked himself out of it. Perhaps after he'd said 'hello' she would direct the conversation in that expert therapist's way of hers.

What Sherlock didn't expect, though, was Rose's voicemail greeting. His breath hitched, and he found himself clearing his throat and saying, "…. it's…. me." _Of course, it is, you moron!_ Sherlock's heart began to drum erratically. _Christ! Where to go from here?_ "Just… letting you know I'm out of hospital. Maybe you didn't know I was _in_ hospital, but it was on the news, or so I'm told. Part of my plan, clearly." He forced a laugh into his voice. "A touch of the dramatic. You know me. The case is closed, anyway."

He lapsed into silence again. _Okay. None of that was actually helpful_.

"I'm fine…. by the way. Mrs Hudson can't stop feeding me. Chicken soup is good for recovering addicts, apparently. And I have minders. They're on a roster. I can't be trusted in my own company, but…" _Oh, for Christ's sake_. "The flat's been cleaned up. All my secret hiding spots raided… not that I've had anything hidden for a while. It's all been out in the open. Weird how they cleared out my drawer full of condom packets. Remember those? I've got no idea why they thought… Well. Doesn't matter now." Adrenalin coursed through his veins and he began to pace. "And… h-how are you? Any… twinges? I mean, of course I'd come and see you, but I'm on a bit of a short leash at the moment."

Sherlock stopped in his tracks. He had nothing more to say. Why was he even ringing?

"So… ring me… or text. If you like. I don't think there are visiting hours, but I doubt you'd be stopped on the stairs or anything. Mycroft's yet to make an appearance, but I could easily truss him up and stow him in John's old room upstairs."

Sherlock bowed his head. He'd run out of things to say. _So say the words, then. End the call for fuck's sake, but say the damn words first._ But his throat constricted.

"Sherlock?"

 _John_.

John's footsteps.

John striding through the kitchen because Sherlock had clearly taken too long in his bedroom. Alone.

"I…I have to go. Talk to you later," he said into the phone before swiftly ending the call.

"Yes, John?" Sherlock asked, exiting his bedroom.

John asked him if he wanted a cup of tea, which Sherlock accepted, but he knew the offer was just an excuse for John to check up on the ex-junkie.

The tension in the air remained, and Sherlock felt the compulsion to end at least the silence by telling John about some pointless cases that had been emailed to him in the last week or so. John nodded and hummed agreeably in all the right places. But the man could barely crack a smile. In between, Sherlock kept glancing at his phone. Every minute that passed seemed like a nail in the coffin of his relationship with Rose. Why didn't she ring or text? Had he really damaged—

Oh! Stupid, _stupid!_

Sherlock swiftly brought up Rose's contact details. He'd blocked her number! If she'd wanted to call or text she couldn't!

"Idiot!" he said out loud, as he removed hers from the list of blocked numbers.

"What's that?" John asked, bringing over their mugs of tea.

"Just… just a part of the plan I'd forgotten to cater for," Sherlock said, placing his phone down on the adjacent side-table. "I guess it's all irrelevant now."

"So, it was all fairly straightforward then," John said, taking his seat once more. "Your plan."

Sherlock explained to John the rudiments of his and Billy's plan, omitting Billy's involvement for reasons he couldn't really determine. He was less certain about how much Rose contributed—had she even stayed overnight in his flat? Perhaps she'd never gently caressed his brow after all. As for receiving information from Culverton Smith's daughter, Faith, that was just bizarre.

"But she wasn't ever here?" John asked.

"Interesting, isn't it?" Sherlock replied. "I have theorised before that if one could attenuate to every available data stream in the world simultaneously, it would be possible to anticipate and deduce almost anything."

"So you dreamed up a magic woman who told you things you didn't know."

Billy's special recipe, with its hallucinogenic qualities, may have been quite powerful in other ways, Sherlock thought.

"Perhaps the drugs opened certain doors in my mind," he told John. "I'm intrigued."

"Oh, I know you are. Which is why we're all taking it in turns to keep you off the sweeties."

Sherlock thought they were actually getting somewhere—the conversation flowing almost like the old days—but his insides churned when John made excuses about leaving. Rosie, though. He missed their conversations, but the mere mention of her these days made guilt and disappointment in himself ripple through him. Had he abandoned his own infant?

Although John's expression barely wavered from politeness under discomfort, Sherlock was grateful John didn't object to his request to visit Rosie. But his ex-flatmate was still leaving and they hadn't cleared the air between them!

 _Say something to make him stay_ , came a voice, loud and clear in his head. It was Mary! Now playing on a DVD in his Mind Palace of all things! _Talk about the case!_ she ordered him.

"Oh, by the way," Sherlock hurriedly added as John went to retrieve his jacket from the landing, "the recordings will probably be inadmissible."

"Sorry, what?" John asked, striding back in.

"Well, technically, it's entrapment so it might get thrown out as evidence. Not that that matters—apparently he can't stop confessing."

"That's good."

"Yeah."

 _Oh, for God's sake, Sherlock!_ admonished Mary. _You haven't even asked how he is. I'm still dead, remember?_

"Are you okay?" he ventured.

John's reply, although stilted, spoke volumes in its rawness. What Sherlock didn't expect, though, was to be let off the hook for what he saw as his involvement in Mary's death, and he told John the conflict he had with Mary saving his life.

"It is what it is," John replied, giving Sherlock a brief smile.

Sherlock nodded in acknowledgement, his heart stuttering. This worthless life Mary had valued over hers, he thought, just what was he going to do with it?

John wavered in the doorway, then said, "Ah, I'm tomorrow, six til ten. I'll see you then."

"Looking forward to it," Sherlock replied, raising his mug to John. It looked like they'd exhausted all they were capable of saying to one another.

"Yeah," John said non-committally, before turning once more for the landing.

Sherlock brought his tea to his lips just as his phone sighed on the table next to him. His heart jolted, and he saw, in alarm, that John had paused mid-stride. For God's sake! It was Rose! And he still had Irene Adler's text alert tone attached to her contact listing!

Sherlock took a sip anyway and tried not to show any reaction to it.

"What was that?" John asked.

Feign ignorance!

"Mm?" Sherlock said, gulping down his mouthful and making a point of looking around. "What was what?

John slowly continued into the room.

"That noise," he said.

"What noise?"

Oh, for God's sake, he's going to think it's The Woman, isn't he? Even though he believed she was dead and that he tried to fob Sherlock off with some lame excuse that she'd taken a new identity in America, that would be the only possible conclusion an inferior mind could draw from this.

Sherlock watched warily as John continued towards him, deep in thought.

"John?"

"I'm gonna make a deduction."

"Oh, okay. That's good."

"And if my deduction is right, you're gonna be honest and tell me, okay?"

"Okay," Sherlock said amiably. _But perhaps I could help John think outside the box for a moment._ "Though I should mention that it is possible for any given text alert to become randomly attached to a—"

"Happy birthday."

_What the f—?_

"Thank you, John. That's..." _Completely wrong! "..._ very kind of you."

" _Never_ knew when your birthday was."

"Well, now you do," Sherlock replied, covering up the lie with another sip of tea.

"Seriously, we're not gonna talk about this?"

"Talk about what?"

"I mean—how does it work?"

"How does _what_ work?"

"You and The Woman. Do you go to a discreet Harvester sometimes? Is there a night of passion in High Wycombe?"

_Jesus Christ! Am I going to put up with this, or actually tell him it was Rose? And it's not even my birthday!_

Sherlock wanted nothing more than to look at his phone and read Rose's text message. But the conversation took on a life of its own. Although John was referring to Irene Adler, Sherlock could see his relationship with Rose in every point John made, except the bit about falling for a dangerous sociopath. And true to form, he tried to get out of it with his romantic entanglement line. Why? Now was the perfect time to tell John about Rose and the baby. Perhaps John could even give him solid advice about what to do next.

"...Trust me, Sherlock, it's gone before you know it. _Before you know it_."

Sherlock's heart gave a dull thud in his chest. His mind was buzzing. Telling John about his relationship with Rose was on the tip of his tongue, but he also had a fleeting moment of panic that it was well and truly over, so what was the point in talking about it. What would Rose say to him in a text that she didn't want to say over the phone?

"She was wrong about me," John said, interrupting Sherlock's thought processes.

The opportunity was lost. Sherlock could see the shift in John's demeanour as he began speaking about Mary. The man clearly had to get something off his chest, even though he tried to disguise it as a lecture to Sherlock. But when John confessed to cheating on his wife, and addressed an imaginary Mary, all Sherlock's thoughts went to his friend. His insides twisted as he listened to what should've been a private confession.

Comforting John in his desperate moment of need was something Sherlock didn't have to think twice about. His own heart was aching.

John eventually stepped out of Sherlock's embrace, cleared his throat and turned for the kitchen. Sherlock watched his friend go. John was making for the bathroom, most likely to reset and compose himself. Sherlock drew in a steadying breath. Whatever Rose had to say, he was going to fight tooth and nail to repair their relationship.

John's words echoed through his head. _Trust me, Sherlock, it's gone before you know it. Before you know it_.

No. He wasn't going to let it be over.

Sherlock moved towards the side-table and retrieved his phone. His pulse hammered in his ears as he turned the phone over and read Rose's message.


	99. The Roads We Walk Have Demons Beneath

 

"Well, that's the last of them," Justine said, as she hastened into Rose's suite and glanced about her, presumably for more stray balloons and flowers. "You right?" she asked Rose.

Rose nodded, then eased herself out of the arm chair.

"Lady Muck fed and watered?"

"Well… not much on offer yet," Rose replied, hugging the swaddled newborn to her and gently rubbing her back. Soft downy hair tickled her cheek. Rose drew in a deep breath, briefly closing her eyes. Her entire body flooded with warmth. Baby shampoo and powder. Tiny flutters of breath caressing her shoulder.

"Any day now," Justine said, reaching for the baby. "You'll be dripping like a tap."

Rose re-clipped her bra strap and smoothed out her shirt as Justine peeled off the swaddling blanket and buckled Grace into the baby car seat.

"Ooh, look at this, eh?" Justine cooed, adjusting the shoulder straps and buckles on the seat. "Travelling in style. Nothing but the best for our little princess."

Rose smiled at the image of her security guard-birthing partner, and now nanny, fussing over the infant. While Justine continued to adjust the car seat, Rose looked about her for stray items, then grabbed her overnight bag from the bed. Spying her phone on the lamp table, she crossed the room to retrieve it. Justine looked over and nodded to Rose's phone.

"What'd he say?" she asked, straightening up and grasping the handle of the car seat, her expression bright in anticipation.

Rose carefully avoided Justine's gaze and hoisted the bag strap over her shoulder. Heading towards the door, she said, "He hasn't replied yet."

"Your dad's gonna break the land speed record coming to see you," Rose heard Justine say to Grace. Addressing Rose, she asked, "How many minutes from Baker Street to here, do you think? A hop, skip and a jump, really. Or did you tell him you were going home today?"

Rose continued along the corridor, a few steps ahead of Justine, her insides twisting. Turning her head a little, she replied, "I haven't told him anything yet."

"You what?"

In two quick strides, Justine was beside her.

Rose stared straight ahead, steeling herself for the protests she knew would come.

"He doesn't know," she said to Justine. "I didn't text him anything about her."

She didn't need to look at Justine to know the woman was gaping at her.

"So what did you text?"

They were approaching the security doors that separated the private suites from the foyer.

"I just said, _Visit when you can_."

They stopped at the end of the passageway. The button that would unlock the doors was on Justine's side. Rose knew Justine was deliberately stalling, her body blocking the button.

" _Visit when you can_ ," Justine repeated. "Did we not listen to the same message? He's clean! He's out of hospital. He obviously wants to see you."

"And he has minders."

"He wanted to know if you'd had any twinges!"

"Can we talk about this at home?" Rose said, looking through the glass door toward the administration desk, where the receptionist was gazing at them.

Justine punched the button beside her.

With the paperwork sorted earlier, there was no need to stop at reception. The invoice would be sent to Scott Williams at his home in Edinburgh. It was an outrageous sum of money, but this was the hospital they had chosen in the end, after careful consideration, in a happier (and drug-free!) time.

The hospital known as "London's poshest" became Grace's place of birth not because of its exclusivity or the champagne on offer or the notion of having one's baby's nappies changed by obliging staff. It was simply because Rose wouldn't— _couldn't_ —have a home birth, which would've been the most private option, especially if they wanted to keep Sherlock Holmes's involvement a secret.

Rose herself had been born via home birth, her mother would tell everyone and anyone who'd listen. Whenever the subject of labour and births would come up, Rose would hear how her own birth was the "most horrific experience" in Sandra Sulford's entire life. No wonder Rose didn't have any siblings.

Rose's parents had returned to London after living in Cardiff and then Birmingham. They'd met in Cardiff, and married and worked in Birmingham. But once in London, Sandra knew next to nobody after living away for so long, and three weeks before Rose's due date, her husband, Rose's dad, had travelled to York for work. Rose arrived a week later.

"You couldn't even wait two weeks!" her mother would admonish her. Even from birth, Rose had been a disappointment to her mother, and she had been playing catch up ever since.

Sandra, not one for making important decisions for herself, had been numb with fear and pain. She wouldn't call a cab ("What if I gave birth in the back seat?") and public transport was out of the question. Finally, she knocked on her neighbour's door.

"The woman couldn't even speak English!"

The neighbour eventually called an ambulance, to Mrs Sulford's horror and shame, but by then Rose had already arrived.

"Such a mess! And the stench! You couldn't get rid of it!"

 _Yes_ , thought Rose years later. _You couldn't get rid of the stench until she was nineteen years old._

It was only her mother's experience that prevented Rose from having a home birth. She knew they were a perfectly safe and a more intimate and private experience. And it would've been the most appropriate option for keeping Sherlock Holmes out of the spotlight. When she'd explained it all to Justine, her birthing partner told her, "Your mother didn't really have a home birth. It was more of an unexpected early delivery, no birth plan, no midwife in attendance—"

"Justine, just… drop it. I can't do it that way…. I just… can't."

Rose knew she was being unreasonable… irrational, even. But as she explained to Justine, she couldn't do it. Her daughter had to be brought into this world in another way. Whenever she'd hear the words _home birth_ , she'd hear it in her mother's voice, full of vile and hatred. Going into labour, and as was becoming increasingly more likely, without Sherlock, already filled her with anxiety. She didn't need her late mother's vitriol embedded in her mind during the process as well.

The Great Portland Hospital was their final choice. Central London, discreet, and Sherlock could pay for the privilege of being smuggled in through the secret entrance. Not that this became an issue at all, in the end.

It was a short walk to the rear exit where Bob had the hire car idling, but the silence stretched uncomfortably before them. Rose knew Justine was quietly fuming.

"Your chariot awaits, Your Grace," Bob said, with a chuckle, as he opened the rear door and relieved Justine of the car seat.

The travelled in relative silence, with Justine in the front seat directing Bob through the traffic and muttering under her breath about why would anyone want to drive in London. Rose knew the real cause of Justine's ire.

Justine had been amazing as a birthing partner. Extremely supportive, taking no nonsense from either Rose or the midwives. It was Rose's wish that they be left alone for the most part, her and Justine, until it came time to push. Justine was someone to have on your side, to champion your cause. But Justine, like Bob, was extremely loyal to Sherlock, and this was now evident in the silent treatment she was giving Rose.

After they unpacked the car in the underground carpark at St George's Fields and hauled everything upstairs to her front door, Bob—the capable assassin looking ridiculous holding helium-filled silver and pink balloons and bunches of flowers—unlocked the door for them. He stepped aside to allow Rose to enter first, a balloon bobbing on her head as she did so.

"Surprise!" yelled a chorus of voices from across the room.

Rose took in the living room before her, a smile frozen in place.

"Welcome home," Indira gushed, enveloping Rose in a hug, while Adrian hovered close behind.

"We're not interested in you," joked Mel, her former colleague at the home entertainment store. "We want to see the baby!"

Indira and Adrian had already visited Rose in hospital the evening before, as had Lisa. Although Lisa wasn't among the welcome home contingent today, it was exhausting having repeat visitors so soon after giving birth. Indira and Adrian had returned a day early from Paris. Rose thought that occasion in hospital would be the last she saw of them before they returned to Edinburgh, but obviously they'd schemed with Bob. Rose saw Justine narrow her eyes at her husband. Clearly she wasn't privy to the surprise welcome home party either.

The party goers—Ade, Indira, Mel, and Sunil, also from her old workplace, plus Sunil's husband, had brought along food as well as non-alcoholic champagne. Grace exchanged hands several times, the food was consumed and Rose opted for tea instead of champagne, even the non-alcoholic variety.

It was a lovely thought, though, but her mind was still buzzing from broken sleep.

When Rose yawned, Justine took that as a signal to end festivities.

"Right, you lot. Clear off!" she said, her smile giving the impression she was half joking, but Rose knew otherwise.

"Post loads of photos," Indira said, hugging Rose once more.

"We'll be back in Edinburgh before you know it," Rose reassured her friends. She saw Justine's scowl from across the room.

As she bid the others a farewell, she knew she'd added another reason for Justine to be upset with her. Well, what did the woman expect? What else was keeping them in London? Once Rose had a photo of Grace and her dad, Scott Williams—before his untimely death—she was ready to begin her life as a single mum in a place she called home. She would have help and support there, they lived in a lovely neighbourhood, and Rose could resume her studies in a year or so. London didn't give her any of that.

"Right, well you go upstairs and shower," Justine said after the last visitor had left, "and I'll keep Princess Grace occupied until you're ready for her. What?"

Rose's frown told Justine she had other plans and she held firmly onto Grace.

"You want to say something," she said to Justine. "Just say it. Get it over with. I could feel your disapproval from across the room."

Justine folded her arms in front of her.

"If we have the conversation now, you'll get in a huff and chuck us out. Then you'll be left trying to have a shower with a fussy baby. At least shower now, and chuck us out after Bob's cleaned up."

Justine gestured to Bob, who was currently dropping paper cups and food scraps into a rubbish bin.

"Oi!" he said. "I think I'd rather hold the baby, to be perfectly honest."

Rose couldn't fault Justine's plan. And she knew Rose well enough to know that she'd give them their marching orders if she thought they were railroading her into a decision.

"Okay, fine," Rose conceded, before handing Grace over to Justine.

She wasted no time in showering and dressing in trackpants with an elasticated waistband. Her stomach, though considerably smaller, still made her look as if she was five months pregnant and she needed to wear something comfortable around her waist.

Justine was changing Grace's nappy when Rose emerged from her bedroom.

"All sorted," Justine said. "Where do you want her?"

"I'm not sure," Rose said with a wry smile. She reached for her baby and added, "Where's the best place for this bollocking you want to give me?"

Justine sighed and followed Rose downstairs. On the way, she said, "It's not that I want to get into an argument with you, Rose. I just don't understand."

They reached the living area, so Rose made herself comfortable on the sofa while Justine handed her another cushion from an armchair.

"He's been an absolute twat with the way he's treated you this last month," Justine continued. "And you kept going back. So what's changed that's keeping you from telling him he's got a baby girl?"

Rose concentrated on preparing to feed Grace while she collected her thoughts.

"It's not any one thing…. Well, it is, but it's also not. It's… it's everything. Everything he did and said over the last month."

"That was all a load of bollocks."

"I know that."

Justine remained standing, watching Rose, while leaning against the edge of the fireplace. Rose dropped her gaze to Grace and drew in a steadying breath.

"I can't believe he really loved me, and still said half the things he did."

"He were trying to get you to leave. To get you to hate him."

"Maybe he succeeded."

"You don't mean that."

"I don't know." She looked up from Grace and met Justine's gaze. "I sometimes think..." Rose swallowed and recomposed herself. "Maybe it will be better if we just go back to Edinburgh. After the photo… the one I want with Scott Williams. For Grace. And Sherlock Holmes doesn't get a look in. If that's what he wants."

"I think he's changed his mind about that, love."

Rose looked away, her eyes pooling with tears.

"It was like he flicked a switch. He wasn't the Sherlock I knew anymore. He was… so cold."

"Rose…"

"He murdered someone."

The words were out of her mouth before she had determined if there was a better way of saying the same thing. Perhaps there wasn't. Justine's expression was unreadable, almost as if she didn't comprehend what Rose had said. And then it hit Rose. _You idiot! Just who are you talking to?_

"Oh, I didn't mean," she stammered. "I mean, I know you…. Well, I don't know, exactly, but it's… it's just that he…"

The front door burst open and Bob swept in.

"All sorted!" he announced proudly.

"Shut that door!" Justine admonished him. "Look at the muck in 'ere."

"What's happened?" Rose asked Bob wearily, but she was grateful for the distraction.

"I've just put t'rubbish out and appeased old Mrs Number 19 that it weren't us who's been using up more than our fair share of t'skip bins."

"There's a job well done," Justine remarked, with a tinge of sarcasm. "You can tell old Mrs Number 19 to sod off an' all."

"Eh, ease up," Bob said. He then seemed to detect the charged atmosphere, and he straightened up a little. "I'll just go put t'kettle on."

After he'd disappeared into the kitchen, Justine crossed the room and sat herself down on the coffee table in front of the sofa. Rose's insides twisted.

"So, I guess now's a good time to tell you how we met Sherlock. Unless he's already told you?"

Rose gave an imperceptible shake of her head, then busied herself readjusting Grace.

"She 'right?" Justine asked. "Any milk yet?"

"She seems content with colostrum for the moment."

Justine waited until she'd regained Rose's attention.

"He weren't trained, the lad. I said to Bob, 'What're they doing? Sending us this young English lad who knows nowt?'"

"Did you use your Yorkshire accent abroad?" Rose asked, slightly perplexed.

Justine laughed lightly.

"No. You're right. I guess I said that in French." Her expression became serious once more. "But he shouldn't have been there. Why did your government send him, for Christ's sake? I mean he were… is… clever. Smart. Brilliant. A good strategist. A quick learner." Justine looked down, her eyes darting as if she was trying to recall every detail. "Impressive hand-eye coordination. Combat skills—quick, agile. Fantastic survival skills…" She gave Rose a brief smile. "Of course, we didn't know he were Sherlock Holmes back then. Altamont, he called himself, when we first met him in Paris. We were assigned to help him… Anyway, that all worked out perfectly fine. He had solid plans. Thought of every possible scenario. Don't know how he works out these things. But then…" Justine breathed in deeply. She wrung her hands together.

Rose felt her face flush. In her arms, Grace was barely sucking. She'd fallen into a light sleep, her jaw moving only intermittently.

"We… we met up again in Poland," Justine went on. "Months later. It were complete shite. Somebody… I'm sure somebody betrayed us somewhere along the line. Bastards." She smiled uneasily again, and Rose's head began to buzz. She didn't know if she was comfortable listening to whatever Justine was about to tell her. And if Justine, of all people, was finding it difficult, then that just said it all.

"We ended up on the outskirts of Kleszczewo… a little village in Poland. Lovely place. And there's this cottage… an inn, really. Never vacant, though. You try rocking up in the middle of winter. No rooms available! Not ever! It were a cover, y'see. Always available for agents like us. Don't know why I'm telling you this. It's top secret. I'm gonna have to kill you by the end of m' story!"

Justine's smile quickly faded when she took in Rose's expression.

"Sorry, love. Poor taste, that joke."

For want of something else to do, Rose eased her nipple out of Grace's mouth and adjusted her bra. Grace flopped back in sleepy contentment as Rose pulled down her shirt. She gave Justine a half-smile to let her know she was still listening. Not that she particularly wanted the nanny to continue.

"The owner of the cottage, nice old lady," Justine began, her smile appearing and disappearing as it had done before. "A widow. Can't for the life of me remember her name, and that's… that's just shite, isn't it? I'm sorry. I'm sure Sherlock knows it. He… well, she taught him how to make sourdough rye bread. Funny, isn't it?"

Rose didn't think the story was at all funny, and she had an inkling about where it was leading.

She lifted Grace up to her shoulder, and hugged the infant to her. It was comforting, this soft, warm barrier between her and Justine.

Justine's expression softened at the sight of Grace snuggling into the curve of Rose's neck.

"I think he were just relieved we could have a break," Justine went on. "We all were. A bit of a breather. He were fond of her. I could tell. She scolded him… forever telling him to get his feet off her stool whenever he sat in this old armchair. He didn't chop the wood thin enough. He didn't make the oven hot enough. I had to listen while he absolutely butchered the Polish language trying to tell her she reminded him of his landlady. Well, he didn't know the word for landlady, so he ended up saying she were like his second mother. She went right off! Said she couldn't adopt him, speaking a mile a minute. He didn't understand a word of it!"

Although Justine's eyes were shining, Rose could find little to enjoy about her story. That Sherlock could even speak a little Polish along with fluent French, was a bit impressive. How many other languages could he speak?

"But we stayed too long," Justine said, dropping her gaze. She clasped and unclasped her hands again. "That must be it… because suddenly they were there. Three of them. Too quick for us to even grab our weapons, Bob and me. But Sherlock." Justine shook her head in exasperation. "Sitting back on that bloody armchair, with his feet propped up…" She sighed, then added, "His gun, the stupid twat, it were wedged down the side of the chair cushion. But he were up in a split second with it, when some lad—couldn't have been more than 18—grabbed her and held a knife to her throat. The other two were outside, guarding the perimeter, I s'pose. He had steady hands, Sherlock. Had the boy in his sights, but no word said between them. He could've pulled the trigger right there and then, but he didn't. The young lad just looked Sherlock in the eye then sliced his knife across her throat. Carotid artery."

Rose gasped, and Bob, who had just appeared in the doorway to the kitchen, called out, "Qu'est-ce que tu racontes! Ce n'est pas le moment! C'est inapproprié!"

"He let her go," Justine said as if she hadn't heard Bob's protests. Rose's head was still reeling. "She crumpled to the ground and Sherlock only had eyes for her. He grabbed her shawl to stop the blood, but this lad came at him with the knife. Good thing Bob were quick to snap his bloody neck."

Bob let out a choke in protest, then fled back into the kitchen. Rose's hand that had been soothing Grace's back had frozen in place.

"We couldn't get him away from her. Stubborn bugger. Completely covered in her blood. We had to leave. I'd eventually grabbed Sherlock's gun and finished off the other two before they'd even set foot inside. But there would be others not far behind. I even tried to convince him to get up at gunpoint, but he just yelled at me to shoot him, too."

Rose's heart jolted, but Justine looked away, her gaze directed to the corner of the room.

"What… what did you do next?" Rose asked, finally finding her voice.

"Bob knocked him out cold." She glanced towards the kitchen doorway. "Good plan, eh, Bob?" she called out. To Rose, she added, "Couldn't leave on foot now that we had buggerlugs to carry out. Borrowed a car. Zigzagged across the countryside. We stopped to sleep, but by morning, Sherlock had gone. We couldn't go back for him the way we came. We had to keep going and hope he'd know where the next safehouse were and make it there himself. Well, he caught up with us a day later. Clean clothes. No new battle scars. But he had dirt underneath his nails."

Rose tried to picture the scene. It felt surreal to her—Sherlock in this environment.

"He…he went back to bury her?" she asked.

"He didn't talk about her again. I'll tell you one thing though. He never hesitated in taking a shot after that."

Rose's skin prickled and she tilted her head so her cheek rested on Grace's head. She could feel the thrum of her own elevated pulse in her ear. Justine leant forward.

"He shouldn't have been sent there," she said. "To do the work he had to. I mean… gathering evidence and tipping off the authorities where he found dodgy dealings—drugs, brothels, smuggling, people trafficking—that were more his thing. But taking a scalpel to remove the tumours on these little crime outfits… taking out bosses, lieutenants… that should never have been him."

"Why didn't you do it?"

"We'd only been assigned to help him twice. I know there were others—agents—scattered around Europe to help him. But in most cases, these criminal networks were organisations he infiltrated himself. It had to be him… but he weren't… equipped. Not emotionally. I could see he were damaged. Not just because of the work he carried out abroad. There were something else. Something he's been carrying his whole life. You must be able to see that. You of all people."

Rose gave a faint nod, her eyes stinging.

A tiny smile graced Justine's lips.

"When he contacted us to come work for him, and I found out what sort of life were waiting for him up in Edinburgh, I couldn't have been happier for him. You… with a baby on the way. And you're just perfect for him, eh? You understand him. You know him inside and out. And he loves you."

Rose blinked, releasing a solitary tear, which she hastily wiped away.

"And this… this barrier he puts up, acting like he's emotionally detached, that's just his way, isn't it? A defence. You know this."

A lump formed in Rose's throat. It all seemed so logical when outlined by Justine in this way. Rose ran a soothing hand along her daughter's back. _Sherlock's_ daughter.

"When he were out there," Justine went on, pointing to the doors that led out to the terrace, "on the night Mary died, he broke down in front of Bob. And all the names came spilling out." Justine's voice tremored a little. "You know… the names of the people he brought down or helped bring down. He keeps a list in his head. Baron Maupertuis, Maupertuis's lieutenant, Maupertuis's mistress, Von Bork, his lieutenant, Reisinger, Lim and her husband, Ivet Mavrodieva's nephew."

Rose head began to buzz. _He killed all those people?_

"He knows everything about them. Told Bob their life stories. Despicable human beings, the lot of them. The things they did… But he humanises them. Never forgets them. And they brought him back here, the government, and gave him a pat on the back and an endless supply of money. No debriefing. And then what? He goes and shoots Charles Magnussen."

Rose took a sharp intake of breath.

"That's who you're talking about, isn't it?" Justine asked her. "When you said he murdered someone."

Rose nodded, her insides somersaulting.

"You know what I think?" Justine said. "From what I know of him, and what Sherlock told Bob… Magnussen held a knife to your throat, too. To Mary's throat. What that bastard knew about you two could destroy both your lives. And there have been many lives he indirectly ended, didn't he? And he didn't give a rat's."

Rose didn't want to engage in this conversation, to bring a reality to Sherlock's actions. To justify them. Her skin bristled and she stopped breathing.

"He had seconds to make a decision," Justine continued. "And you know what? He expected to die after he took the shot. He dropped his weapon and waited for the special armed forces to take him down. Prepared to die, he were. He'd do this one last thing to save you and Mary, and then let them end him. He thought that's what he deserved. After everything."

Justine shook her head, and looked away as if in disgust. She wrenched her hands in her lap.

"And that brother of his… saved him from being executed on the spot, only for him and his cronies to order him on one last mission. One that would have him dead inside of six months. And he were all set to go!"

Rose blinked as tiny cogs in her mind kicked into gear. That sounded so familiar. Didn't Sherlock tell her about this? But he made it sound as if it was the fate of some random intelligence agent—a discussion they'd had back in Edinburgh, when she was studying Violence Risk Assessment. That was it! And the "operative" had been prepared to die, he said. Felt like he'd deserved it and he had nothing else to live for.

"And then that Moriarty hoax happened," Justine was saying, as Rose's stomach churned monstrously at the memory of her and Sherlock's conversation—how outraged she'd been on behalf of the operative. "And suddenly he were the golden child again. Forgiven and forgotten. What kind of message does that send Sherlock? Satan one minute, the Saviour the next!"

Justine reached forward, her eyes glistening. She patted Rose's knee and said, "He needs you, love. He needs all of us. But you most of all. If you can find it in your heart—"

"I know," Rose said, her voice rasping. She couldn't articulate her feelings any more than that. To voice her current thoughts would unleash a tidal wave of emotion.

Justine stood up and turned from her, but Rose could tell she was wiping her own eyes.

"You take Her Royal Highness to bed," Justine said, twisting around and smiling briefly. "We'll lock up down here."

Rose pushed herself up out of the sofa.

"Justine," she began.

In a rush, Justine was in front of her, enveloping her—them both, mother and child—in a hug.

"I know, love," Justine said, patting Rose's back.

"I'll do my best," Rose said, in a voice barely above a whisper.

"I know you will." Justine eased back and added, "Now you ring me if Madam here starts fussing in the night."

"I will," Rose replied, as Justine released her. "Otherwise, I'll see you in the morning." Rose looked towards the kitchen. Bob hadn't emerged with their tea. Rose assumed he was upset about being reminded of their time in Poland. She didn't blame him. "Say goodnight to Bob for me, won't you?"

Rose turned and made for the stairs, her heart and her thoughts weighing her down as she ascended.

 


	100. Congratutions, By the Way

Sherlock lifted his coat from the hook on the back of the living room door with stealth-like precision, while keeping one eye on the supine figure of his jailor. As he slipped his arms through the sleeves, he watched as the D.I. rolled to his side. Lestrade's snores momentarily ceased as he adjusted to the new position on Sherlock's sofa, however, they once again increased in volume and intensity as deep sleep reclaimed its hold.

Mrs Hudson's finest sherry had done the trick. One corner of Sherlock's mouth quirked into a rueful smile. It was quite handy that Lestrade had the sort of job that necessitated a fix of alcohol on a regular basis, and even more so tonight with Culverton Smith's confessions entering their third day. Here was Sherlock Holmes, abstaining from mind and mood-altering chemicals, while gently encouraging the misuse in others.

As he snuck out of his flat, Sherlock took stock. He was perfectly fine, if anybody cared to ask. A headache was his regular companion, but that would fade in time. His face and ribs were still a bit tender. He hoped his appearance wouldn't be too alarming for Rose, especially his left eye. At least he was upright and moving around. But what he wouldn't do for a smoke, though. He patted his pockets, a reflexive gesture. He wasn't really going to indulge. If he was giving up Class A drugs, he may as well toss in the minor ones as well.

It was a twenty minute walk to St George's Fields, stretched into thirty minutes when Sherlock factored in the need to elude his brother's CCTV network. Half an hour was a good amount of time to get his mind and emotions in order. Statistics were against him; he knew that. The chance of Rose having already given birth had risen to about fifty percent. The fact that her reply to his voice message was fairly innocuous weighed in his favour. But how could he escape his captors if she went into labour at any given moment? Mycroft said Sherlock would be under supervision until the end of the week at least.

Depending on good behaviour, he mindfully added. The last thing he needed was to be caught sneaking out in the middle of the night as he was doing right now.

As Sherlock neared Frederick Close, the laneway that gave him access to St George's Fields, he hesitated. Desperate for a fag now. Should he detour to Crispins? Wander back along Seymour Street? It was nearly midnight. What would be open? Sherlock took in his options in both directions, his heart drumming a military tattoo in his chest.

What if Rose was upset with him? But her message: _Visit when you can_ , meant she was fine, surely. She clearly acknowledged the difficulty he faced leaving the flat to see her. There was no anger in the words. No dismissals. No rejection.

Emboldened, Sherlock once again about-faced. He strode determinedly through Frederick Close before fear and doubt could take control. Holding his fob card in front of the reader at the end of the lane, and waiting til the light turned blue, he reminded himself that paranoia and depression were part and parcel of detox. Sherlock slipped through the gate and took the gently meandering paths to Rose's building block.

Once outside her door, he drew in a calming breath.

_Right then. In we go._

Standing in the tiny hallway with the stairs rising up to his left and the living area straight ahead, Sherlock strained to make out the bobbing shadowy figures across the room. Adrenaline shot a course through his veins. Intruders!

But… why didn't they come any closer? Or make a noise?

Sherlock stepped into the living area and fumbled for the light switch.

WELCOME HOME! yelled the bunting.

IT'S A GIRL! BABY GIRL! CONGRATULATIONS! chorused several pink and silver balloons.

Sherlock froze, staring wide-eyed. The balloon in the shape of a pink baby's foot continued to dance, obviously prodded by the air currents that had snaked in through the door when he had entered the flat.

He dragged a hand across his mouth. He was too late! He had… he… had…

Sherlock flicked off the light, not wanting to be taunted a moment longer by the gleeful floating exclamations. He used the wall to steady himself in the darkness. His breath caught in his throat, his chest tightening.

Dear God, he was too late. Rose would never forgive him. He'd missed the birth of his baby daughter! He wasn't there to support Rose in labour! The most important day of his existence!

He turned for the entrance door, staggering a little, before grabbing the stairwell banister for support. As his chest heaved, the air took on an eerie quality. The presence of another life. A tiny bundle who was now a separate entity. Upstairs with Rose. A life he was partly responsible for.

His own inadequacies weighed heavily on him and Sherlock was momentarily paralysed with fear. His mind refused to offer him a decision. Flee or continue on? Sherlock gazed upwards at the darkened stairs. As if by his thoughts alone, the stairwell was suddenly emblazoned in light. Tentative steps sounded above him.

"Sherlock?" came Rose's voice seconds before she appeared on the landing, halfway down the stairs.

His heart melted at the sight of her and he straightened up. Her hair, tousled from sleep, fell about her shoulders, a salmon-coloured tank top accentuated her much smaller baby(less?) belly, and, curiously, she wore his own pyjama pants. She caught him staring at the pyjama bottoms and ran a hand over her hip.

"They're more comfortable than mine at the minute," she said, smiling sheepishly. She'd stopped on the landing, her expression soft, her eyes glistening with what Sherlock could only guess was affection.

"Are you coming up or leaving?" she asked, wrinkling her brow a little.

"Sorry," he said, his voice rasping slightly. "Did I wake you?"

Sherlock didn't believe he'd made any noise at all in the time he'd been moving about downstairs. Perhaps Rose was already awake and had seen the light emitted from the living room in the few seconds Sherlock had switched it on.

"Bob texted me," she replied, continuing her slow descent without taking her eyes off Sherlock. "He said not to be alarmed if I hear anyone inside, but the front door's been unlocked and the fob card reader on the eastern gate had been triggered by your card three minutes ago."

It took a tenth of a second for Sherlock to understand how that kind of information had been retrieved. And for Sherlock, that length of time was a bit on the slow side.

Once upon a time, when making plans for Rose to temporarily move back to London, Sherlock had instructed the Wilsons to install extra security in and around her flat in St George's Fields. It looked like Bob had hacked into the private estate's own security system as an extra precaution. Good man.

"Let me guess," Rose went on. "You've just seen the balloons and you're in a state of a shock." She pulled up a couple of steps in front of him, her eyes studying his face.

"A bit," he managed to say.

The smile grew on Rose's face, confusing Sherlock. What did she make of his facial injuries?

Instead of commenting on them as he had expected, she offered her hand and said, "Come on."

Sherlock let Rose lead him upstairs. His head buzzed with a multitude of thoughts. Didn't she know what he had done? He had chosen drugs and a case over what they had together—yes, perhaps in an effort to "save" John Watson. But Sherlock had pushed Rose away, ignored their plans for the future, and didn't think about the arrival of their baby! And what's worse, he'd confessed to murdering Charles Magnussen!

They reached the landing, and Rose stopped outside the door to the nursery. Her eyes shone bright, the same smile playing on her lips.

"Rose," he said. His guilt had formed her name on his tongue and pushed it from his mouth without permission. He didn't actually know what to say next when her eyes become more rounded. "I'm... I'm sorry."

She tightened her grip on his hand.

"I know you are."

"And I don't deserve your forgiveness."

"Who says I forgive you?"

His eyes widened. It was worse than Sherlock thought. He had been wrong to get his hopes up as they had climbed the stairs. Rose was going to chuck him out any minute now.

"But of course I do," she added.

"I've behaved appallingly."

"You pushed me away because you thought you knew what was best for me." She stretched out a hand and rubbed his arm. "I did the same to you not that long ago, remember? I almost didn't tell you I was pregnant until you deduced it." Rose paused to reinforce her smile. Sherlock's heart beat was erratic. "I think we've both learnt a lesson here," she continued. "Not to make decisions on each other's behalf, don't you think?"

Sherlock blinked and bowed his head a little in agreement. When Rose reached up and cupped his cheek in her hand, he shut his eyes to feel the full effect of her soft touch, his breath shuddering on the way out.

"I'm sorry about the surprise," she said, lowering her voice. Her thumb lightly skimmed his cheekbone. Sherlock met her gaze once more, even though he could feel his own eyes stinging. "I was in two minds about telling you," Rose went on. "Bit upset after my last visit to Baker Street… but Justine knocked some sense into me. And I wasn't expecting you for a few days."

Sherlock's throat constricted at Rose's mention of her last visit.

"I'm glad you came," she said.

Rose slid her hand to Sherlock's nape, bringing him towards her so she could capture his lips with hers. They were soft and gentle and a warmth flooded through him. His heart lifted. He'd forgotten how safe and secure she made him feel. It was like being wrapped in a familiar blanket. He drank her in, her patient and tender kiss firm but not too unyielding. But before Sherlock could part his lips in response, she drew back.

"I love you," she whispered.

The intensity of emotion came at him in waves, threatening to engulf him and pull him under, but he held back tears using the last of his strength. He went to open his mouth to respond in kind, but Rose, her eyes fixed on his, said, "Congratulations, Sherlock. You're a dad."

It hit him like a sledgehammer. Sherlock choked out a sob and gathered Rose in his arms. He seemed to collapse inwards, burying his face in her neck. He trembled and shook as both shock and relief twined inside him. The label of "dad" gave him a title, a duty, a responsibility, but more importantly the message of acceptance and forgiveness on Rose's part. He held her fast while her arms encircled his neck. She rubbed a soothing hand over his nape.

"We're going to be okay," she whispered.

He didn't feel okay.

Her breath cooled his neck and she remained silent for a time. Rose moulded perfectly into him. Sherlock couldn't let her go. The battering of emotions began to subside, yet he still clung to her. His breath caught and he released it in an unsteady stream. This was what was missing from his life these past few weeks. How could he think life would be better without her?

Sherlock could feel self-doubt and loathing draining away, but he grabbed them back before lifting his head from Rose's shoulder.

"If you knew the things I've done…" he began, drawing back so he could meet her gaze. "The things I'm capable of…"

"I know, Sherlock. I know all of it. And because of that, you deserve more of my love, not less."

His head buzzed. She knew _all of it_? All of what? He could feel his throat constricting and he stopped breathing. Had Justine told her about the others? But what about…

"Magnussen," he said.

Rose slowly nodded, her eyes searching his.

"You just went the wrong way," she said, a doubtful smile flitting across her face. "You can make it right again, by how you live your life from now on."

She was so forgiving. Sherlock felt buoyed only a little by her words. Self-loathing was still trying to pull him under.

"I missed…" He drew in a steadying breath. "I missed… our daughter's… birth."

"You didn't miss much, honestly." Her mouth eased into a smile. "And she's barely three days old and only just starting to get interesting." Rose's eyes glistened with affection. She was trying to make him feel better. He knew she was lying. "Do you want to meet her?"

Sherlock swallowed the lump in his throat. Rose's smile widened.

"Isn't she asleep?" he asked. "When does she normally wake up?"

"This is our first night at home. We don't have a 'normal' yet."

Sherlock stared at the closed door, panic rising inside him.

"I… don't want to wake her unnecessarily."

"She'll be fine."

Rose's hand was on the door knob, her expression soft and encouraging. Sherlock gave her an imperceptible nod.

His heart rate began to accelerate as the light from the stairwell spilled into the room. Rose entered and held the door ajar for him. Sherlock's limbs were stiff and awkward and he felt he had to concentrate to coordinate them when he crossed the threshold.

Rose stayed by the door as Sherlock approached the cot. She had closed the door a little, leaving enough light to see by.

Sherlock looked down to see…

…a baby.

He didn't know what he had expected. But there she was: a tiny bundle dwarfed by the now seemingly enormous cot. A blanket stretched wide over her body, tucked in firmly on either side of the mattress. One hand, with delicate fingers, was visible above the edge of the blanket. It had worked itself free of the swaddle—Sherlock could imagine the process—and it was clenched in infantile triumph. Her cherubic face shone in sleepy repose, and the soft pout of rosebud lips could be seen in the half light. Sherlock's heart stuttered. He had created this… well, he'd had a hand in creating this. Not so much a hand, more like—

"This is Grace," Rose said in a half-whisper. She had come up beside Sherlock and had slipped her fingers through his.

He curled his hand around Rose's, not daring to breathe. Clinging for dear life, perhaps.

"Would you like to hold her?" she asked.

"No."

He felt, rather than heard, Rose chuckle. Didn't she realise how inadequate he felt in that moment?

She released his hand and reached out for the cot. Sherlock stepped back, giving Rose room to raise the rail, flick the catches aside, and then gently lower the side of the cot.

He watched as Rose lightly tugged on the blanket to loosen it. He relied on mental telepathy to communicate his protests. _Don't wake the baby! Not on my account!_ Who was he to disturb such an innocent, peaceful sleep?

Rose had scooped up the precious bundle and stood before him, presenting their baby to him.

Sherlock's arms felt gangly and uncoordinated. They hung uselessly by his side and he didn't know how he should receive her. His daughter. A faint smile played on Rose's lips as if she knew what was going through his mind.

"This is Grace," she said, as if he hadn't heard her the first time. "Your daughter."

Sherlock lifted his arms. They felt heavy and foreign, and in that moment, it suddenly dawned on him how John Watson had felt around Rosie. Woefully inexperienced! And he could hear his own voice saying, " _Oh, for Christ's sake, John! She's not made of glass!"_

Rose gently placed Grace in his arms. Sherlock was sure the loud thudding of his heart alone would wake her. He held her a little away from his body, but she felt lighter than he had expected. Then she began to squirm! She hated him! Little arms struggled to work free of the swaddle. Her lips parted and creases appeared in her brow. What was he supposed to do now!

"You can rock her if you like," Rose said.

But Sherlock's muscles had tensed and he froze, watching helplessly at the swaddling blanket coming loose. Soon arms would be free… and they'd feel the cold air!

But the first tiny cough in protest snapped Sherlock out of panic mode. He rearranged his hold, cupping her precious head in his hand instead of the crook of his elbow, and he brought her body to nestle against his chest.

"We'll have none of that," he said to his daughter. "I'm your daddy, and you don't fool me for one second." He lifted her to him and pressed a soft kiss to one chubby cheek.

He looked up when he heard a sniff from Rose. Silent tears had pooled in her eyes.

"Come on," Sherlock said, turning for the door. "Let's go and make Mummy a cup of tea."

 


	101. I've Always Trusted You

Sherlock dropped his phone onto the living room table with a resounding, "Yes!" after ending the call with Lestrade. His heart thumped enthusiastically.

The D.I. had his daughter coming to stay for the night (" _You have a daughter?_ " Sherlock had asked, to Lestrade's bemusement). His ex-wife had to attend a _thing_ , so Lestrade couldn't stay at Baker Street as a result.

Molly may have been able to replace him, but she was expecting a late post-mortem to come in. Judging by Lestrade's hesitance in speaking, he was trusting Sherlock to _be okay_ _by himself_ for the night, perhaps because the D.I. didn't want to incur Mycroft Holmes's silent but deadly wrath by informing him of the shift change.

Sherlock strolled to the living room window and looked out onto the street. All he had to do now was wait until just on nightfall, instead of after midnight, as he had been doing all week, then he could escape to St George's Fields and visit his family. A smile stretched wide and his chest swelled. _His family_.

He turned from the window and shrugged out of his dressing gown. He strode purposefully towards his bedroom, whistling the first two bars of Bach's _Sonata No. 1 for Solo Violin_. Sherlock examined his image in the full-length mirror as he drew on his jacket.

_Might shave when I get to Rose's_.

He rubbed his jaw in thought. The cropped beard drew some attention away from his injuries. If he had a clean-shaven face, the subconjunctival haemorrhage in his left eye would feature more prominently. Perhaps he'd leave the shaving for now.

After straightening his lapels and running a hand through his curls, Sherlock left the bedroom for the kitchen, restarting the sonata, and making several attempts to whistle the trills in the second bar.

He stopped short as an idea hit him. He could play lullabies to Grace! Would that be okay with Rose? What kind? Did he have any? Should he take his violin over there tonight?

A number of tunes ran through Sherlock's head as he filled the kettle. The fingers on his left hand automatically danced over imaginary strings. He still had some time before last light after sunset, so he may as well enjoy a cuppa while he searched through his sheet music for suitable, child-friendly pieces.

As he placed the kettle onto its holder and switched it on, the front door clicked shut. Light treads on the staircase easily identified the visitor. _Not_ Mrs Hudson with a bag of groceries! Sherlock's heart sank. His plans for an early visit were thwarted!

"Hi!" said Molly, her cheeks flushed from her rapid ascent. "I've brought that chicken you like this time."

Sherlock forced a smile to his face as Molly entered the kitchen from the landing, carrying a bag of takeaway Chinese.

"I thought you had a post-mortem."

"They transferred it to—"

"Good," he said, turning toward the kettle and not really hearing Molly's reply. "Tea?"

On any other night, Sherlock may have enjoyed Molly's company. Good food. Interesting post-mortems to discuss. But all he could think of was the lost opportunity to spend more time getting to know his daughter. He smiled inwardly at the thought of Rose good-naturedly chastising him for spending the first few nights he'd visited holding Grace in his arms the entire time he was there. Most of the time, that was, when Rose wasn't feeding her.

" _You'll spoil her!_ "

Yes. Yes, he would. Because he was her daddy and that was his job.

All things being equal, he only had one weekend of incarceration left. Mycroft would stop this ridiculous need for Sherlock to be babysat, and he'd be free to spend all day, every day looking after Grace! And spend it with Rose! He had already planned to purchase more 'Scott Williams' attire here in London, since most of his alter-ego's wardrobe (except for his pyjamas) were in Edinburgh. Or he could get Rose to buy them for him if Sherlock Holmes shouldn't be spotted shopping for off-the-rack clothing.

They could go strolling through Hyde Park together, just the three of them, before the autumn chill really set in. With a hat and sunglasses and the rest of his casual attire, Sherlock imagined he'd look like one of those pointless celebrities trying to hide in plain sight by looking ordinary.

And Sherlock Holmes was far from ordinary.

But he ate and chatted with Molly, more amiably than his previous persona would've allowed. They had their own books to read, but frequently interrupted each other with random thoughts. As the hour grew late, Sherlock realised his error. With Lestrade, the more talking they'd do about disturbing cases, the more alcohol the D.I. would consume. With Molly, it was cups of tea! She'd never get tired at this rate! Sherlock needed a new strategy.

He feigned a yawn and turned the page of his book.

"Don't let me keep you up," Molly said, as if on cue.

Sherlock snapped his book shut and gave her a tired smile.

"At least with Class A stimulants," he said, "I could last a bit longer. I'm having nothing more potent than caffeine these days."

He rose from his chair, a real yawn escaping this time. He stooped to retrieve their tea cups and was satisfied to hear an empathetic yawn from Molly.

"Greg said you were going to bed early most nights," she said, twisting around as he entered the kitchen. "You must need your sleep."

Sherlock glanced at Molly. She was now looking towards the sofa. Panic flitted through him. Molly was a light sleeper! And further more, she'd probably spend a couple more hours reading. He'd never get past her if she was perched near the door!

"Why don't you take my bed," he said, depositing the tea cups into the sink.

"Oh, no. I couldn't kick you out of your own bed," she said, rising from her chair.

"Nonsense," Sherlock replied, giving her one of his crooked smiles and crossing the kitchen to rejoin her in the living area. "I've hijacked your bedroom several times in the past. It's only fair you take mine. And I fall asleep quite easily on the sofa, as John can attest."

"I don't mind the sofa, really."

"I won't have it, Molly," he said, his voice deepening for maximum effect. "You've got… what was it? Three PMs to conduct tomorrow. You need your sleep. At least I can take a nap during the day if I feel as though I've slept poorly. Now, I'll just get my things…" He turned and strode back through the kitchen, not giving Molly another opportunity to protest.

Sherlock used the bathroom as quickly as possible and changed into his pyjamas and dressing gown. Molly had washed the tea things and gave him an embarrassed smile as he crossed her path on his way through the kitchen.

"All yours," he said.

And now it was just a matter of waiting.

Sherlock turned off most of the lamps in the living area, except for the one by the sofa. He arranged the spare pillow and blanket that had been placed aside each morning after Lestrade had left. He sank down, his elbows propped on his knees, head bowed. A clock ticked in his head. Seconds turned into minutes. But minutes stayed as minutes. They weren't fast enough to transform into anything.

Restless, Sherlock hovered in the darkened kitchen, listening to the water running in the shower. He resumed his position on the sofa, then he stretched out along the length of it. The sofa was quite comfortable on the occasions Sherlock had taken to it, entering his Mind Palace when in the middle of a difficult case. More comfortable when wearing his pyjamas than when he was wearing a suit, naturally. And sometimes he'd even fallen aslee—

_Wait! What the fuck!_

He was wearing his pyjamas! What was he going to do? Wander about London in sleep wear? If caught, he'd look more like a desperate junkie if still clad in pyjamas, even if he did have his Belstaff covering them.

_Moron!_

Sherlock padded into the kitchen once more, his heart hammering. Thankfully, Molly was still in the bathroom. As he crossed the threshold into his bedroom, he heard the water turn off. With quickened steps, Sherlock retrieved his suit from the closet, plus a new shirt, since he'd tossed the one he'd been wearing earlier into the clothes basket.

He'd left the kitchen area by the time he heard the ensuite door to the bedroom open. Close call!

How could a man who risked life and limb to break up criminal networks, both here and abroad, be so poorly prepared for something as simple as sneaking out of his own flat in the middle of the night? With these kinds of mistakes he would've been dead inside a week.

Sherlock stored his clothing in John's old room upstairs. If Molly came out to get a drink of water before retiring, he didn't want her to see the evidence of his planned escape.

When a sufficient amount of time should've passed, he took up surveillance in the hallway again. That end of the flat was completely silent. Was it devoid of light though? Sherlock ended up on his knees, peering underneath the slit in his bedroom door. Yes, there was a faint glow. Molly was reading by the light of the bedside lamp, the one on the far side of the bed, judging by the intensity of the glow.

_Great. Good fucking deduction there. Glad you could use your skills for the greater good!_

But what now?

He had to wait.

Just… wait.

By the light of the floor lamp next to the sofa, Sherlock idly flicked through his sheet music. But his heart wasn't it in. All he wanted to do was leave. Still, it proved a distraction for a few more minutes even though his eyes no longer saw the actual compositions and his fingers didn't dance over imaginary strings.

He found himself in the passageway outside the bedroom once more. No more glow of the bedside lamp! Sherlock straightened up, his pulse thudding in his ears.

_Molly's turned off the lamp because her eyes have grown heavy from reading. She'd be asleep inside ten minutes. Action stations!_

Sherlock tried to keep his movements restrained and quiet although he longed to bolt upstairs. He dressed in his trousers, shirt and jacket, as he had done a million times before, but his fingers felt thick and clumsy.

There, he thought, running his hand along his jacket lapels, before fastening the single button at his waist. But something felt wrong!

Sherlock dropped his gaze to the floor. His toes wiggled a hello up at him.

_Shoes!_

_You fucking_

_idiot!_

They were still in the bedroom, beside the chair in the corner of the room.

_How_ could he have let this happen! Had all the drug use, inactivity and the presence of parenting hormones made him incapable of strategising a simple escape plan?

Sherlock found himself outside his bedroom listening intently to the silence within. He could do this. He'd once successfully retrieved a firearm from a sharp shooter in the dead of night from a criminal mastermind's headquarters on the outskirts of Berlin. How did this even compare!

Sherlock twisted the doorknob until he was sure the latch was now completely within the cylinder. He pushed the door inwards, at first just a crack, then finally to the point where he could slip inside.

_Piece of piss._

In the inky blackness of the room, Sherlock crept across the floor knowing precisely where the chair stood. Beside the chair legs he'd find his shoes. He stooped, fingers brushing the edge of the leather. Now confident he had the pair in his grasp, he straightened up.

One knee cracked.

Dear God, he was getting too old for this sort of thing! Desperately out of shape!

Sherlock froze. If Molly stirred at the sound, she'd probably open her eyes. Not seeing bobbing shadows or hearing muffled noises upon which to ponder, she'd most likely go back to sleep.

There was a click of the bedside lamp before the room was bathed in a warm glow. Defeated, Sherlock straightened fully.

"Sherlock?"

He twisted around and gave Molly a friendly smile.

"Just getting my shoes," he said casually. "But now that you're awake, I'll just…" He waved vaguely toward his dresser drawers and cleared his throat. "Ah… get a fresh pair of socks, too."

He rounded the bed, making for the drawers, feeling Molly's eyes upon him. He gave a light cough once more as he took out the first pair of socks he laid eyes on. Not good for the sock index!

"Where are you going?"

"Oh, you know…" he said, taking a seat on the edge of the bed with his back to her. "Just going out for a walk."

He began pulling on his socks as if this were an ordinary day… or night, hoping the airiness in his voice would force Molly to reconsider any suspicions she harboured about his intentions.

"Sherlock, you can't just go out in the middle of the night with no explanation."

"Oh, relax, Molly. It's just a walk."

"Why now?"

He glanced up at her and gave her a rueful smile.

"Little bit famous," he said, before returning his focus to his shoes. "I don't want to draw any attention to myself. Can't go out during the day, not while Culverton Smith's deeds are being reported in the press on a daily basis. And I can't sleep at the moment. Too much tea."

Molly stayed frustratingly silent as Sherlock laced up his shoes. Outwardly, he probably looked the epitome of calm, inwardly however, his stomach was performing somersaults.

"I'll come with you," she said.

"No need."

Sherlock swiftly rose and made for the door, hoping like hell his over-confidence was enough to detain Molly.

"You can't go out by yourself."

Sherlock paused by the open door.

"I'll be fine," he said. "London at night is my playground, remember. And besides, you've got a full day of work ahead of you tomorrow. You need your sleep."

"Sherlock, I'm not worried about your safety at night. I think you know that."

Uh oh, Molly was wide awake now. He could quite possibly be in a lot of trouble if he didn't shut down this conversation right now.

"I won't be long," he added, stepping across the threshold. "Don't wait up!"

He shut the door behind him and made tracks through the kitchen.

"Sherlock!"

Dammit!

He glanced over his shoulder. Molly was hastening towards him, pulling her dressing gown around herself. He stopped on the rug by the armchairs, his shoulders drooping a little.

"You know why I'm concerned," she said, pulling up in front of him. "You're an addict. You've been clean for a week. The risk of relapsing—"

"Molly. There's no need to recite statistics. Firstly, I don't relapse. I intentionally use when I—"

" _Intentionally use?_ "

"Yes. You know why I was using. And before this whole business with Culverton Smith, my previous substance use was necessary to delve into my Mind Palace to work out whether or not James Moriarty was dead."

"Sherlock—"

"And before that, I used drugs as a strategy to make Charles Magnussen think I wasn't a threat. The days of me using because I'm bored due to a lack of cases are long gone. You know that. I'm not that flippant. And these days, I… I have far too much to lose."

The remaining air whooshed out of his lungs, as if he'd just been punched. His voice, threadbare. He knew why. Because his last session of drug-taking had resulted in him missing the birth of his daughter and nearly losing the love of his life.

Molly was studying him as if she couldn't quite figure out what was going on with him. Sherlock stood taller and drew in a steadying breath.

"Molly. Sometimes a walk is just a walk." When she still didn't look like she was on board, he added, "As it has been every other nigh—"

Oops. Not good to admit to sneaking out on all those other occasions! They really will put the shackles on him then.

"What?"

Sherlock sighed and gave a half eye-roll.

"I've been out every night this week. For fresh air. No sign of drug use is there? John sees me every other day, as do you. Lestrade, every night… when he's not passed out on the sofa and Mrs Hudson, throughout the day. You can take a urine sample in the morning if you like."

Molly seemed to consider his words. Sherlock looked towards the door just a few metres away. He _could_ make a run for it.

"I'm still coming with you," she said, folding her arms in front of her. "If a walk is really just a walk, then you won't mind if I come along, too."

No, _no_ , NO! This wouldn't do!

"Really, Molly. This is highly unnecessary."

"I'm going to get dressed," Molly replied, indicating the bedroom with a wave of her hand. "And if you so much as set a foot outside the door, I'm going to ring Mycroft. And he _will_ catch up with you eventually, then you can have this conversation with him."

She turned to leave.

"No. Wait," Sherlock said, having already determined in a few hundredths of a second that sacrificing just one night of being in the company of his new family with actually going for a walk with Molly will still have further consequences. She would feel compelled to tell the others about his little jaunts through the city at night. Mycroft would probably increase surveillance, perhaps even set a tail on him after hours!

He knew what he had to do. He had to come clean with her.

"Could we just talk… for a minute," he said, gesturing towards the armchairs by the fire.

Perhaps it was his expression, muted by a heavy heart, that caused concern to flit across Molly's face as she took John's old armchair. He waited until she was seated and comfortable before he cleared his throat.

"I could just ask you to trust me that it's not drugs," he said, moving towards his chair, his hands shoved into his trouser pockets. "It's nothing bad at all, in fact, it's something quite..." He almost lost his composure again as the word formed on his lips. "...wonderful." He drew in a steadying breath before continuing. "But I'm pretty sure I've lost any trust you have in me, what with my track record."

"If it's drugs, of course you'd say it wasn't drugs," Molly said. Tiny creases had appeared in her brow. Clearly his alternating expressions still confused her.

"Yes. Yes, you're quite right."

Sherlock took his seat, perching himself on the edge of the chair, resting elbows on knees with his fingers threaded together.

"So, what is it?" Molly prompted him.

Sherlock stared fixedly at the rug. Where to start? Though he'd decided to tell Molly the truth, telling her everything there was to know about his and Rose's relationship seemed a bit of an overkill right now. At any time, really. He didn't want anybody else to know about how they met. He told Mary about Shelley the prostitute. How painful was that to relive! No one else was ever to know his darkest secret. He couldn't do that to Rose.

Or Grace.

Sherlock stood up abruptly, his heart stuttering.

Moving away from the fireplace, he said, "I'm not sure where to start."

"The beginning?" Molly offered.

With his back to her, Sherlock could feel his insides roiling. Definitely _not_ at the beginning.

Not _their_ beginning. He had stood there, on the pavement outside the brothel with one request only: to lose his virginity. Such a naïve expectation. And there was Rose, in the back room, studying—trying to make ends meet to see her through uni. Neither party thinking that what they were about to engage in was wrong. He demanded a service. She was there to deliver it. Thoughts of exploiting a person for the purposes of sex, whether or not they had 'consented' to this way of life, had never entered his mind. His participation in the spectrum of violence against women now sickened him. Tonya Small's lectures to him threatened to replay in his Mind Palace.

"Erm…" he began, struggling to reconcile his feelings. He shook his head a little to clear it. "No," he then added, his voice now thickened with emotion. "It's a long story."

He projected the love and concern he currently held for Rose onto the person she was back then—the young woman waiting for him in the brothel. The one whose repeated experiences of submitting to unwanted sexual intercourse would lead to her own declining mental health.

Rose. _His_ Rose. The mother of his child.

His stomach clenched.

"Why don't you just tell me why you need to go out tonight?"

Molly's questioning was soft, patient. Kind. She was willing to let the silence stretch before them because she was giving Sherlock the space he needed to process whatever was going on in his mind. Molly always seemed to know when he possessed an inner torment. Dear Molly. And all he ever did was exploit her good nature.

Turning to her, his eyes stinging, he said, "I've always trusted you, Molly."

She gave him an uneasy smile. Of course she was wondering where this was heading, because the last time he'd spoken those words they had led to his death!

Sherlock wrung his hands together as his heart continued to pound.

"This is something that's so important to me, it's crucial you don't tell anyone." When Molly's eyes widened by degrees, he added, "N-not yet, anyway. I will tell people when I'm ready. But not right now. Do you understand?"

"Not really."

She smiled again. The smile that told him she was uncomfortable with whatever he was asking but she'd go along with it because he was Sherlock and she was loyal.

"But you can trust me not to tell anyone," she added, "unless it's something that'll cause you or someone else harm."

"No. It's definitely not something like that."

The thought of what was waiting— _who_ were waiting—for him at the other end of this painful conversation flooded him with warmth. It plucked at his lips, painting a faint smile there.

"Then tell me," Molly said.

The joy was causing his chest to swell. It bubbled inside him, until it pooled as unshed tears.

"I'm…" he began, his heart racing. He raked a hand through his curls. "I'm a… a… dad. A... father." He couldn't help it, but his mouth kept twitching into a faint smile. "I… I've just become a father, Molly."

 

 


	102. You've Probably Got Some Questions

 

The air became stilled for a moment, before Molly replied, "Sorry. What do you mean? W-what… how…"

"...The usual way," Sherlock said, slightly miffed. Wasn't it obvious?

By Molly's expression, perhaps it wasn't so obvious. It began to dawn on him just how Molly Hooper saw him. Capable of human emotions, yes, but Sherlock Holmes stopped short at romantic entanglements. And why wouldn't she think that? He'd shouted it from the rooftop enough times.

With a tilt of her head, Molly asked, "So… you've had a baby… with… someone?"

She spoke as if those words had no business referring to Sherlock.

"Yes."

"A woman."

"Y-es. Yes! A woman." Christ! What did she think? But it wasn't a question, was it? "Look. Molly. I've been in a relationship," he began slowly, the words sounding foreign on his tongue. "I _am_ in a relationship… I've known her for years. It sort of developed into a… well… it's a long story, like I said. But we've been in some sort of… thing... since I came back from the dead. It's been on and off again. Mostly on, but occasionally off, because I'm such a… well, you know me… a bit of a… dickhead."

He attempted a smile, but Molly's expression was unchanging, with the exception of a delicate flush spreading across her cheeks. Or was he imagining it?

"And…" he said, looking away. He needed to keep talking. "… and obviously this last month, you saw how I was. To her, I was an utter… utter… wanker. She was in her third trimester, for Christ's sake. And I was off my tits on drugs… Ended up in hospital attempting to entrap Culverton Smith, while my… my…" He paused to clear his throat. "Well… she was in hospital giving birth to our daughter that same night. And now, here I am, scrambling to make it up to both of them. She's forgiven me, of course, because…" He returned his gaze to Molly, his eyes slightly moist. "Because… she's a saint."

Molly gave a vague nod and focussed her gaze everywhere else but on him.

"So…" Sherlock began. "May I…?"

He left the question hanging, unsure of Molly's frame of mind. It wasn't usual that he couldn't read her. But it was always his own emotions that disrupted his logical processing abilities.

When her eyes finally rested on his once more, she seemed to sit a little taller.

"You said you understood if I didn't take your word it wasn't drugs," she said, her voice struggling to remain even. "Why should I trust you when you say you have a baby?"

Why indeed!

He blinked, deep in thought, then nodded in agreement.

"Yes. Yes, you're right, of course. How stupid of me." Gesturing to her, he said, "Come with me."

"What?"

"Right now," he said, his heart lifting a little. He could be seconds away from leaving, again! "St George's Fields isn't too far. A half hour walk at the most."

"Sherlock, I don—"

"And then I might have to get you to stay the night, because I won't have you returning here in the middle of the night. Not by yourself. There's a spare single bed in the nursery, and we can move—"

"No, Sherlock. If…if what you're saying is true, then the last thing you should be doing is to turn up on a doorstep at midnight with a complete stranger. Not if you're trying to get back into somebody's good books."

"You're not a complete stranger."

"To… to her I am… unless…" Molly's eyes widened in astonishment. "Oh, God. It's not… I mean, she's not… Janine, is she? Mary's bridesmaid?"

Sherlock gaped a little, momentarily stunned.

"Dear lord, where did that come from?" he said. And then it dawned on him. Of course. His little charade and Janine's revenge. "Don't believe everything you read in the newspapers, Molly. I've never even touched her… well, perhaps I _touched_ her… a bit… but not in that way. Christ, no."

"Okay, right, well," Molly said, clasping her hands together. "I didn't actually mean I wanted to see the baby for myself. Don't all new parents take loads of baby photos?"

"Oh!" Sherlock said, blinking rapidly in realisation. Stupid! He reached into his jacket pocket and drew out his phone. "Yes, of course they do," he murmured.

He swiftly navigated to his photo gallery. When confronted with quite an alarming number of photos of his daughter, he clicked on the first one taken. Rose had snapped a few using his phone the first night he'd met Grace, because her phone was still upstairs.

Sherlock handed the phone to Molly. She cradled it in both hands, her focus on the screen in quiet contemplation.

In the photo, Sherlock was gazing down at Grace, his face in profile because he didn't want the left side, with its injuries, to feature prominently in a picture with his baby daughter.

He suddenly felt very self-conscious with Molly studying the image. He gave a light cough.

"If you swipe across," he said, his throat tight and strained, "You'll see a close up of her. Grace, that is. We… we named her Grace."

Molly emitted a tiny "Oh" before swiping across the screen, only to find a similar photo to the first.

"Oh, you'll have to…" Sherlock said, but Molly had already navigated to the next photo, which was also in the same vein as the first two. Bloody hell, Rose. How many did she take?

Molly kept moving through the photos, which Sherlock remembered now contained Grace waking and yawning and gazing up at her daddy. At the time, Sherlock had smiled and chuckled at her before he became aware of Rose's constant photo taking—in between her sniffling, that is. She'd been quite emotional. The last one in the set had him frowning up at the camera in mock irritation.

But finally, Rose had stood over him to snap a photo of Grace in close-up, her eyes wide open, as she stared up at him.

"Do you…" he began hesitantly to Molly, "Do you think she looks like me? A bit?"

He had to know. Another person's opinion was very useful to him. Especially one who also knew him well. Rose said Grace looked like him, as did Justine. Bob had quickly agreed, but Sherlock knew the man had no opinion either way. Rose told him Lisa commented that Grace had her father's eyes, an odd comment for someone who had never met him, to which Rose said Lisa qualified her statement with the fact that Grace's eyes were nothing like Rose's. Indeed they weren't. The shape, anyway. She had Sherlock's almond-shaped eyes. The slate-grey eye colour would change in a few months' time, becoming a blue-green like Sherlock's, most likely.

Rose didn't say any of her other friends gave an opinion on who Grace looked like, except for a comment from Ade, she said. Grace wasn't a ginger, he pointed out, which confirmed for him that Rose's baby wasn't his. Sherlock hadn't appreciated that snippet of information at the time.

"Yes, a little bit," Molly said in a tiny voice in response to his question. She swiped again, her hand frozen over the image now displayed, before she swiftly navigated back to the previous photo. She cleared her throat and stood up, holding out Sherlock's phone to him. "She's beautiful," she said, her eyes glistening a little.

"Thank you. But I can't take all the credit. She also has Rose's genes, obviously."

"Rose?"

Sherlock's mouth eased into a smile.

"Coincidence," he said. "Nothing to do with Rosie's name."

"You once called me 'Rose'."

"Did I?"

Sherlock had absolutely no recollection of that. A slip of the tongue, perhaps.

"A long time ago," Molly added. "After you came back to London. I wondered who she was, for you to have her name on your mind. Is that where you met her… abroad?"

"No, no," Sherlock said, clearing his throat. "Here in London." He stepped back and rubbed a hand across his nape.

"Does John know about her?"

"John? Well… um… yes. Yes, he did. Ages ago. When we were… when we… ah… There was a thing. A case," Sherlock attempted to wave a dismissive hand. "Long story. Not important. But he doesn't know about her _now_. And… and definitely not… the… baby."

Sherlock gave a light cough and tugged at his collar. Small tells, gestures that gave away his deception, he knew that, but hoped Molly did not.

"Why not?" she asked.

"Because…" he began slowly, "Rose doesn't want him to know. Not yet, anyway. She's a bit… upset.. with… him."

"With John? Why?"

Sherlock began to shrink under Molly's scrutiny. He didn't know why that was. Something about her seeing through his bullshit, and now the padlocks had flown off the hidden trunks in his Mind Palace and all sorts of secrets threatened to spill out.

"Ah… because he hit me."

"John's always hitting you."

"He did this."

Sherlock gestured to his face. He didn't show his torso, of course, but that was what set Rose off one night when he was changing into pyjamas to join her in bed—the multicoloured bruises where John had repeatedly kicked him.

Molly's expression wasn't as aghast as Rose's had been, but then again, she was only privy to half the information.

"I just thought that was done by Culverton Smith's bodyguards," she remarked.

_As did Rose_ , Sherlock thought. _Initially_. Until she'd demanded the truth.

"No," he said to Molly, his shoulders drooping a little.

"And what about Mycroft?" she asked.

"No. Definitely not." He knitted his brows together. "Molly. I just want a bit of time to spend with Rose and Grace, and no interference from my brother. You know what he's like. I know I can trust you on this, and I appreciate your confidence."

Molly drew her dressing gown tighter.

"Well, you should go… to them, I mean. Just… just be back before dawn in case Mycroft checks up on us."

"Thank you, Molly."

She gave him a half-smile that didn't quite meet her eyes and turned for the kitchen.

Sherlock pocketed his phone and strode over to the living room door. Just as he was lifting his coat off its hook, Molly said, "Sherlock."

She'd come back into the living room, her nose a little red, he thought.

"Congratulations," she said, her mouth twitching into a smile.

Before Sherlock could utter his thanks, Molly swiftly vacated the room.

Was she upset, he wondered as he drew on his coat. But why? He then recalled her freezing at the next photo, before hastily returning to the close-up of Grace. What was it? What had she seen?

Sherlock pulled out his phone once more. Grace's face filled the screen, and his heart stuttered. He swiped to the next photo. It was a selfie he took of the three of them. He had his arm around Rose, who was now holding Grace. They were leaning towards each other as they looked up at the camera, faint smiles on their lips.

Oh. So she'd got her first glimpse of Rose. But why would Molly be upset about putting a face to the name? The knowledge of him having not only a girlfriend but also a baby would be quite a shock to some people, but Molly's demeanour seemed more than just pure surprise.

Surely she didn't… no, of course not. Molly _cared_ for him, and that…that _silly crush_ she had on him all those years ago had disappeared, hadn't it? Her self-consciousness around him had long gone. She didn't take any of his nonsense any more. She saw through him. Their relationship had become something of a friendship based on mutual respect, or so he'd like to believe… when he wasn't being a complete dick to her. From her perspective, it couldn't have developed into… well, something more, could it? Not… not _Molly_. They were _friends_.

But as Sherlock's heart became heavy, he knew his take on things was quite erroneous.

Molly may have given up on any kind of romantic notions where Sherlock was concerned because he always gave the impression he wasn't interested in that kind of thing. With anyone. But that didn't mean she didn't love him. And now he'd shown he was perfectly capable of becoming involved with someone romantically. Someone _else_ , though.

"Oh, dear God," he murmured. She was hurting, because he had just heartlessly flaunted his new relationship status in front of her. And his new family.

Sherlock backed away from the door and gazed toward the kitchen.

He should go to her. Explain. Tell her it all happened by accident. It grew out of circumstances beyond his control. He hadn't intentionally decided to enter into a relationship. There were many factors. A past history together, for one thing. His need to be in the company of _someone_ upon his return, since his friends were all busy with their new lives, was another. John had Mary. Molly was engaged to Tom. It wasn't their fault he felt the world had moved on without him, but he was bereft of company in those first few days. And Rose was…

Rose was…

But as an ache dulled his chest, he knew going to Molly now would be a mistake. If he knew Molly Hooper, and he was sure he did, letting her know he had deduced not only her feelings towards him, but what effect his revelation had on her, would only make matters worse.

Sherlock bowed his head and inhaled deeply. He had to leave Molly to process her feelings in her own way, without interference from him.

He shook his head, his chest heaving.

_Molly._

_I'm sorry._

_I'm so so sorry._

With a heavy heart, Sherlock slipped out of his flat and into the cool night air, headed for St George's Fields.

* * *

"Look, Sherlock," Rose said, attempting to keep her voice quiet and steady since she'd just put a sleeping Grace into the pram. "I've just changed Grace's nappy twice, and her singlet and onesie again in the space of ten minutes. I have to work out what layers and blankets and things to take with us. The last thing I need is a toddler having a tantrum about his outfit as well."

Sherlock spun on his heels and headed back upstairs, his head bowed.

Rose's stomach twisted as she listened to Sherlock's footsteps on the floor above her. Perhaps she should feel a tiny bit guilty for snapping at him, but he was a grown man, for fuck's sake! He should be able sort out his own wardrobe! And if he didn't like the "civilian" clothes she'd bought him, then he should've bloody well gone shopping himself.

Rose gently rocked the pram to ensure Grace stayed asleep until they at least got as far as the Italian Water Gardens. It was their first outing as a family and Rose had been looking forward to strolling through Hyde Park and Kensington Gardens with Sherlock and Grace.

The newly minted father had finally been released from his home detention and had stayed the night. It would've been wonderful to have woken curled up next to him, but it wasn't to be. Sherlock had decided he'd try to extend Grace's sleeping time by taking the single bed in the nursery and patting the baby back to sleep without waking Rose for at least one of Grace's nightly awake times. He wanted to give Rose one six hour stretch of sleep—a luxury!—instead of the broken three hours at a time she'd been getting lately.

It was very thoughtful of him. Still, it would've been nice just to lie in bed together, wondering what their lazy Sunday would bring, as they had done what seemed like a hundred years ago. Not that her ideal day would incorporate any of the antics they used to get up to on a Sunday. All she wanted to do these days was sleep. It was the most desirable commodity in the world.

But Sherlock had to duck out back to Baker Street, he said, to retrieve a signal jamming device, or something, and had taken hours to return. He was in a foul mood by then.

He emerged on the staircase, having changed out of the hated t-shirt that dared sport a commercial logo. She didn't know why he objected to it. He'd worn something similar in Edinburgh. He now wore a plain white tee underneath a blue chambray shirt, paired with black jeans. He tromped down the stairs in new boots, unsubtly letting Rose know he still wasn't happy. With what part of the ensemble, she didn't care to know.

Rose glared at him, hoping he'd understand she'd turf him out if he dared wake the baby. Sherlock brushed past her, striding across the living area to retrieve the cap and jacket he'd irately discarded earlier in his bid to protest the inferiority of the clothing items.

Rose turned her back on him as he finished dressing. It was best to ignore undesirable behaviour in a child. She unlocked the front door, and shifted the pram out of the way so the door could swing inwards.

"Do you want to push?" she asked, without looking at him.

"Yes."

Of course he did. It would be just like Sherlock to want to control the steering of the pram as well.

Rose held the door open and waited for Sherlock to bring the pram around.

"Are you sure you can manage?"

She heard Sherlock's scoff as she stared resolutely out onto the estate gardens.

As he navigated the pram through the doorway, he muttered, "I once commandeered a Super Puma L2 helicopter and prevented us crashing into the North Sea. I'm sure I can push a fucking pram."

Rose's stomach dropped and she felt pressure on her sinuses. She brought her sunglasses down to cover her eyes which were rapidly pooling with tears. As she pulled the door shut behind her, she couldn't help feel responsible for the ice that hung heavy in the air around them. She was on a short fuse herself these days. This wasn't how their first outing together was meant to be!

Sherlock suddenly stopped in front of her, and pulled the pram back towards the front door.

"What have you forgotten?" she asked, hoping her voice didn't betray her emotions.

He turned to her, pushed the brake on the pram with his foot, and plucked off his own sunglasses.

"This," he said, pulling up in front of Rose.

He pushed her sunglasses up, propping them on top of her head, and planted a gentle, if a bit scratchy, lingering kiss on her lips.

Pulling away a little, he said in a low voice, "I'm sorry, Rose. I'm a fucking arsehole. Please forgive me."

Tears now streamed down Rose's cheeks. She was a mess. Sherlock left one hand cupped to her face and he wiped away one track of tears with his thumb.

"I'm… sorry… too," Rose said, sniffing.

"Don't be," he said, he eyes glistening with affection. "You've got too much to think about already." He dropped his hand and straightened up. "I didn't tell you this, because I didn't want to add any more to your plate this afternoon, but my annoying arse of a brother set a tail on me as I left Baker Street earlier. Took me hours to lose them. And I stopped by Craig's to get another jamming device. Couldn't find mine. I'm sure Mycroft will start tracking me via my phone if he can't get a visual on me. He removes the babysitters, but still doesn't trust me enough to leave me alone." Sherlock searched Rose's eyes before he lifted a hand to caress her cheek again. "I'm sorry for my meltdown earlier," he went on, his tone softening. "You and Grace are my whole world, and I don't want to waste one second making our life together miserable."

Rose tried to offer Sherlock a smile, but his little speech caused her to choke out a sob.

A smile stretched wide on his face, and he gathered Rose up into his arms. He chuckled in her ear as he held her tightly.

"I love you," he murmured, causing a fresh round of tears to pool in Rose's eyes. She tried to compose herself while Sherlock smoothed a comforting hand over her back.

Finally putting a stop to her tears, Rose eased back.

"I love you, too," she said, wiping at her eyes. Over Sherlock's shoulder, she had observed movement underneath the blanket in the pram.

"Someone's waking," she said.

Sherlock tutted as he shifted to examine their daughter.

"You always want to be the centre of attention, don't you?" he said, as Grace let out a hiccuping protest. "I have no idea where you get that from."

Rose's heart sank. They hadn't even left the front door!

"We should go back inside," she said as Sherlock scooped Grace out of the pram and rearranged her and the accompanying blanket over his shoulder. "I'll give her an early feed," she added, sighing.

"Nonsense," Sherlock said. "You push, and I'll pat. I'll have her asleep before we even reach the road."

Rose wished she had faith in Sherlock's confidence, but as they were all set for an afternoon walk anyway, she wearily acquiesced. They wended their way through the estate's garden paths, with Rose pushing an empty pram, and Sherlock patting Grace over his shoulder.

By the time they reached the Bayswater Road access gate, Grace had succumbed to her father's soothing pats. Sherlock gestured towards the gate with a tilt of his head, prompting Rose to retrieve her fob key as he gently lowered Grace back into the pram.

Once they were out onto Bayswater Road, with Grace's face relaxed in sleepy repose, Sherlock held out a hand to Rose.

"I'm quite adept at this pram pushing business," he announced, "I can even do it one-handed."

Rose chuckled lightly as she threaded her fingers into his. The little family eventually crossed Bayswater Road near Albion Street, and continued their journey into Hyde Park.

 


	103. No Need For Stimulants Now

 

Sherlock gave Rose's hand a comforting squeeze as they walked along, and she tilted her face towards the weak sun, attempting to bathe it in an autumnal glow.

"So, who am I walking with," she said eventually. "Scott Williams or Sherlock Holmes?"

"This is London. It's my turf."

Not Mr Williams then. Did he only exist in Edinburgh?

Rose scolded herself for not enjoying the moment. But the future stretched before them, as cloudy and uncertain as Edinburgh's weather. Would they return there? She still had her studies to continue. Motherhood hadn't erased her desires career-wise, but it had definitely taken a back seat in her mind. The thought of leaving Grace in care with anybody at this tender age, well any age, really, horrified her. Perhaps when she's twenty-one, Rose thought, chuckling to herself.

"What?" Sherlock asked.

"Nothing," Rose said, smiling sheepishly. "Just thinking about the future."

Sherlock was silent for a moment, before he said, "I don't want you to worry about anything."

"That's a tough request."

"No. Really. I've organised everything."

Rose stopped along the pathway, dropping Sherlock's hand.

"What do you mean?"

"In the event of my death."

Rose's skin prickled and a wave of dread rippled through her.

"W-what?"

"It's fine, Rose. Just a precaution. I've set up a trust fund in Scott Williams's name, but if I die before he does, there are several processes set in pla—"

"Stop, Sherlock!" Rose exclaimed, aghast.

"Why, what's wrong?"

Rose shook her head lightly, then proceeded to walk along the path once more. Sherlock fell into step beside her, now pushing the pram with both hands.

"What's wrong?" he asked again.

"I don't want to know," she said, her face feeling flushed.

Sherlock held out an arm to prevent Rose from walking on.

When she stopped and reluctantly turned to him, he said, "It's just a practicality. I want you to feel safe if I—"

"Don't say it!"

"Say what?"

"Just… stop it." There was an enormous pressure on her tear ducts again. What the hell was wrong with her? She gazed along the path. Their destination, the Italian Water Gardens, was just ahead. "It's because of Mary," she said, finally.

"What about her?"

"She made plans before she died, and then she…"

"One doesn't necessarily infer the other."

"I just don't want you to talk about it, okay? You've made plans, and that's… that's fine. You don't have to tell me about them, though. I don't want to know, Sherlock."

Rose knew she was being entirely unreasonable. So she was impractical about death. She had her reasons.

After they'd walked along in silence for a minute or so, Sherlock let out a long "Oh."

"What?" Rose asked.

"It was you."

"It was me, what?"

"Mary asked _you_ to give me that DVD. There were no postal markings on it, so it was hand delivered then. You were looking after Rosie while she recorded it. That's how you knew she'd made plans."

Rose remained silent. It didn't seem necessary to confirm or deny Sherlock's deduction. He knew he was right. Should she even mention she still had a DVD to send to John? How was she going to know the ideal time to send it to him? And what was the message Mary had made for Sherlock?

"What was—" she began, but at that moment, Grace stirred again. They stopped while Sherlock retrieved the precious bundle from the pram.

"You're determined to be front and centre," he said, bringing Grace up to his shoulder. "We're going to have to work on your timing, though, aren't we?"

Grace continued to protest, so Rose glanced about them before finally settling on a park bench overlooking the closest of the four ponds that made up the water gardens.

"Over there," she instructed Sherlock.

Once parked in front of the bench, Sherlock set about discreetly and deftly changing Grace's nappy in the pram. Once clean and marginally happier, she settled into Rose's arms ready for her afternoon feed.

"I'll…just…" Sherlock said, looking about them, "go and find someone who can make you a cup of tea."

Rose's heart swelled. He was so thoughtful without thinking twice about it! Was he really the same man who had threatened to expose her to the nation's media outlets just under two weeks ago?

Sherlock didn't have to search too far, Rose realised, looking in the direction he'd taken. She removed her sunglasses as the sky became more overcast. The café at the end of the gardens sold a variety of beverages. She'd been here a few times now—just the other day after meeting with her mothers' group at the nearby playground, and even before that, in summer, with Bob and Justine. They'd walked here quite a bit both before and while Sherlock was in Morocco. Heavily pregnant and tired, she'd sat at the bench across the pond, finding it hard to imagine she'd have a baby in her arms some day.

Sherlock returned just as Rose was holding Grace over her shoulder and gently encouraging her to burp. He held two takeaway cups, one with a tea bag dangling from it. His was coffee, Rose surmised.

"They didn't have your special tea," he said, handing Rose the cup with the tea bag. "So I asked for a cup of boiled water." He took a seat next to Rose and added, "And now we all have something to drink." He finished with a chuckle before taking a sip of his coffee.

"Then why does this one have a tea bag in it?" Rose asked. "This is the one I drink," she added, reading lemon and ginger on the label.

"Oh, because I brought one from home," he replied with a casual air.

"You brought a tea bag from home?"

"Yes. Just in case."

Her eyes stung yet again and she hurriedly blinked tears away.

"Thank you," she said quietly. She dropped her head, and felt Grace's soft hair against her cheek. Feeling a sudden heady rush of love for him, she said, "Sherlock."

"Mm?" He turned his head in her direction a little, but his gaze was still focussed across the pond.

Rose planted a quick kiss on his cheek and said, "You're wonderful."

"I know," he replied. "But don't do that again. We are in a public place, Rose."

"Oh, stop it. Nobody knows who you are."

Depositing his coffee cup onto the bench beside him, he then turned to look at her. As he drew away his sunglasses, Rose could now see his eyes focussed on hers and full of purpose. Rose held her breath as Sherlock narrowed the gap between them. His lips barely touched hers at first, before he pressed them together. She could taste the coffee on his breath, and his moustache tickled her. After he drew back, he studied her for a second, a hint of a smile on his lips, before he winked and slipped his sunglasses back on.

Rose's heart restarted as Sherlock leant back into the seat and silently took another sip of coffee. After all this time, he still had that effect on her.

"I don't know what you're doing to me," he said at last. "I'm barely a shadow of my former self."

"Don't be so dramatic," Rose said, smoothing a hand over Grace's back. Still feeling the remains of a warm glow inside, she thought, _You're dad's a romantic_. To Sherlock, she said, "Why don't you look around and deduce a few people? That'll make you feel like your old self."

"Yes, well, I need to reassert who I am," he said, placing his coffee on the seat next to him. "Hand me the baby so I can feel invincible again."

Sherlock rose from the park bench and reached for Grace. Once her daughter was safely in Sherlock's arms, Rose put away the scarf she used to help with breastfeeding and straightened out the blanket in the pram. Sherlock took his seat once more, babe in arms, and scanned the other park visitors in the near vicinity. Rose leant back just as Sherlock was looking across her towards another bench seat.

"Last night was poker night," he stated simply.

"What?" said Rose. "That's pretty specific."

She looked in the direction Sherlock had glanced before making his deduction.

A woman sat on the next park bench, her neck resting on the back of it, her long dark hair cascading about her shoulders, and her face turned upwards in the direction of the sun, although it was still behind a thick blanket of clouds. She looked like she was fast asleep. In one limp hand was the end of a leash. The other end was fastened to the collar of a small dog, who was occasionally yapping at visitors walking along on the other side of the pond.

"Hey," Rose said, her insides twisting. "Isn't that—"

"Tonya Small," Sherlock finished for her, gently patting his daughter's back. "Yes, it is."

Tonya looked quite poorly, Rose thought. But as Sherlock stated, if last night had been poker night, she would definitely look the worse for wear. Rose had accompanied Tonya on many walks through Kensington Gardens with her puppies, but the morning after a poker night usually resulted in Tonya falling asleep on a park bench with Dorangel and Armin—the unfortunate miniature Schnauzers named after infamous cannibals—twining their leashes around one another.

"Hang on… where's Armin?"

"Dunno," Sherlock replied.

"Should we go over and say hello?"

"I'd rather finish my coffee."

Rose sipped her tea, occasionally looking towards Tonya. Dorangel had finally stopped barking and sat at Tonya's feet, gazing longingly across the gardens.

"You don't want to talk to her, do you?" Rose asked Sherlock.

"Mm," he said, staring fixedly ahead. "I deduced much too late that she was deliberately trying to break us up."

Sherlock's comment gave Rose pause. She had also come to the same conclusion last year with all the advice Tonya had been giving her. Just what had The Clarence House Cannibal been saying to Sherlock?

"She's asleep," Sherlock added.

"That's normal for the day after a poker night."

"I'm talking about Grace."

Rose turned back to Sherlock who was pulling the pram closer.

"Oh."

"It's up to you which direction we walk," he told her as he gently lowered Grace into the pram.

Rose sighed. It was clear which direction Sherlock wanted to take. But when Rose stood up, Dorangel began to bark, the Schnauzer intent on gaining the small family's attention. Sherlock tutted and scoffed under his breath as Grace's brow furrowed. He rocked the pram back and forth a little which probably delayed the inevitable for only a few seconds.

"Dorangel!" yelled a now awake Tonya Small. "Sorry, darlings!" she called out to Rose and Sherlock. "He loves new faces." Bending toward her puppy, Ms Small quietly admonished him.

"Let's go," Sherlock said in a low voice to Rose, pointing the pram in the other direction.

"Sherlock!" Rose replied in a harsh whisper. "We can't walk the other way now!"

"I don't think she recognised us. I'm pretty sure we can get away with it."

"No!"

Tonya had risen from the park bench, but had stooped to unwind her puppy's leash from the bench leg as Rose took to the path in her direction. Sherlock tutted and pushed the pram behind her.

As Ms Small straightened up, Dorangel now cradled in her arms, Rose forced a smile to her face.

"He won't bother—" began Tonya. "Oh!" she exclaimed, her face lighting up. "My darling Rosebud!" She moved to awkwardly embrace Rose with one arm. "Why on earth…? I didn't recognise you," Tonya spluttered, pulling back to examine Rose, her attention divided between her former neighbour and the contents of the pram that had pulled up alongside.

Sherlock busied himself bending over the pram giving cursory pats on the blanket covering Grace in an effort to sooth her.

"This… this is Grace," Rose said, her chest tightening. "She's almost a week old."

"Oh!"

It was an exhale of barely disguised horror on Tonya's part, Rose was sure of it. Sherlock straightened up, now holding Grace. Tonya quickly rearranged her features and held out her hand.

"Tonya Small," she said to Sherlock, immediately ingratiating him with a silky smile.

Behind Sherlock's shades, his expression was immovable.

"I believe we've already met," he said, in his customary smooth baritone.

Tonya took a sharp intake of breath, her hand immediately going to her chest as if to steady her heart.

"Mr Holmes! You're unrecognisable!"

"That would be the point of the disguise."

"We…" Rose stammered, looking from one to the other, "we don't want anyone to know… obviously."

"Yes, of course," Tonya replied. She recovered quickly, then added with a majestic sweep of her hand, "So, nothing changes."

"Evidently, not," Sherlock replied.

"So how are you?" Rose asked, rushing to neutralise the charged atmosphere. "Dorangel's so much bigger now. But where's Armin?"

"Accident," Tonya replied, hugging her remaining baby. "He got away from me. Tried to cross Bayswater Road by himself. It was awful, darling."

"Oh, Tonya. I'm so sorry."

"Thank you. It was six months ago and I've barely recovered. Mr Macready sorted everything for me." Rose nodded vaguely, having no idea who Mr Macready was. Probably another neighbour. "Well, I won't keep you," Tonya added, eyeing Grace with suspicion. "I'm sure you have a lot of… baby things you must be getting on with."

Tonya gave Rose air kisses and demanded the younger woman visit her some day so "just the two of them" could catch up. She called Sherlock "Mr Holmes" by way of a farewell.

Sherlock, in the same vein, replied with, "Ms Small."

As they continued to head west through the park, with Sherlock patting Grace over his shoulder and Rose pushing the pram once more, the Consulting Detective remarked, "She hates babies."

"No, she was just in shock."

"Mmm, no. Hates them. Can't stand them. The human kind, anyway."

Rose's insides were roiling. It had been an unexpected encounter.

"Do you think she'll tell anyone about us?" she asked.

"Definitely not. She's still fond of you, and besides, she has too many dark secrets of her own. She won't want that kind of attention."

At the first light sprinkles of rain, the new family turned for Bayswater Road. The regular hum of traffic and her father's rhythmic pats soon had the baby girl asleep in no time at all as they headed for home.

* * *

Sherlock planted a soft kiss on Rose's forehead. A smile grew on his face as he watched her eyelids flutter open.

"We fell asleep," he said, a rough edge to his voice. "That wasn't meant to happen."

Rose stretched and yawned, before rolling over to glance at the clock.

"God, how long were we out for?" she asked.

"Almost three hours."

She rolled back, shuffling into Sherlock. The warmth of her skin upon his was instantly arousing.

"Sorry," she murmured.

"We obviously needed it," he said.

Lost in their own thoughts earlier, both had lapsed into silence until sleep took hold. Sherlock had been speculating on the woman who had posed as Faith Smith and the notepaper he had found earlier that morning, proving she was real, while Rose had pondered out loud if and when she'd return to Edinburgh.

Banding his arms around her, Sherlock added, "But we still have an hour or so. What can we get up to in that time?" He took the opportunity to press upon Rose his desires in case she needed prompting.

"I'm pretty sure we only need fifteen minutes anyway," Rose replied, a hint of a smile in her voice. She kissed the underside of his freshly shaven jawline and Sherlock was thankful they were on the same page.

As Rose's lips trailed over his face, Sherlock chuckled in his sinfully low register.

It was quite generous of Justine to insist on giving the couple some time alone with each other by taking Grace to the Wilson's flat next door. They'd had a fortnight of juggling sleep times, conducting half conversations, and Sherlock disappearing for hours at a time on half-baked cases. Just this morning he had a married couple visit him, where the husband believed his wife was channelling satan! Time wasters! He had Rose to worry about ever since they had a near scare when they thought she was getting mastitis. Her efforts to express milk so Sherlock and the Wilsons could share in the feeding took a bit of effort to coordinate and her breasts were not so cooperative at first.

They had taken family walks through Hyde Park on a few more occasions, morning or evening, carefully avoiding any place Rose said Tonya liked to walk. But private alone time between Rose and Sherlock never lasted long.

They lay on their sides in bed, fingers tracking light paths, lips whispering and teasing, taking their time to provoke arousal in one another.

Other romantic efforts in the last week or two had been conducted in stolen moments, rushed or aborted, each time wondering if Grace's unpredictable sleep patterns would disrupt their cuddle time together. This was the first opportunity they had to actually engage in penetrative sex. Sherlock liked to keep the things they did neatly catalogued—oral sex, mutual masturbation, the lone orgasm gifted by one or the other late at night in front of the telly—but it was that act that was sorely missing from their repertoire of late.

After they shed the last of their clothing—the underwear they'd fallen asleep in—and their antics became quite heated, Rose gently reminded Sherlock about their need to take precautions. He scoffed and rolled from Rose. With a petulant frown, he looked to the ceiling then laced his fingers together across his bare chest. She'd already heard his opinion on the matter. Quite a lengthy one it was, too.

"Fine."

With a chuckle that told him Rose was playing along, she drew open the bedside table drawer.

"Do you want to know…?" she asked.

"No. Let me work it out. We can at least make a game out of it."

"You think we've used enough that you can now tell one from the other?"

Sherlock knew incredulity in Rose's tone when he heard it.

"I've catalogued two hundred and forty-three types of tobacco ash, written quite a comprehensive blog on the identification of perfumes, and outlined the relative tensile strengths of different natural fibres. And you think I'm incapable of—"

"Yes, I get the picture."

While Rose fiddled with taking the plastic wrapper off the box of condoms she'd purchased a few days ago, Sherlock roamed his Mind Palace, quietly dipping in and out of snippets from the past, specifically their condom experiences together during their service provider-client arrangement and the undefined relationship they had in those early days after his return from the dead.

The tearing away of plastic became more exasperated, so he remarked, "Are you right?"

"Fucker," Rose muttered under her breath and Sherlock knew she was referring to the box and not him. At least he hoped that was the case.

"Yes, I know," she said, eventually replying to him as she shoved the drawer shut. "Not very professional of me. Don't feel as though you have to leave a tip."

Sherlock gave a low-throated chuckle at her quip. Even now, with their seedy past firmly behind them, this was a history they shared. The sordid details still included happy times, didn't they? The excitement of discovery, the odd dance they choreographed around one another, which included, but was not limited to, sexual encounters. Why wouldn't he play along?

"Oh, I'm tipping you for your conversation," Sherlock replied.

Rose loomed over him, a smile playing on her lips.

"In that case, no kissing," she whispered, "and no questions of a personal nature."

"Where's the fun in that?"

Rose maintained eye contact as one hand cruised lazily from Sherlock's chest to his torso. His skin prickled in anticipation in stark contrast to that very first time. As her fingers encircled him, he emitted a low, satisfied moan of approval and his eyes were reduced to slits.

Rose straddled him, but continued in her task with slow, confident strokes.

With a huge amount of effort to resist lying back and enjoying the moment, he said, "Permission to ask a personal question."

One eyebrow shot up and a smile teased Rose's lips. She probably thought he was going to act like his old self.

But he locked his eyes on hers and asked, "Do you love me?"

Her faux-professional demeanour faltered. Clearly she wasn't expecting that! As her eyes moistened, Rose dipped her head and pressed her lips to Sherlock's by way of a response. So much for the no kissing stipulation! As he returned the gesture, he felt the hunger in her kiss and the promise of more to come.

Rose eased back, slipping the condom on to him with well-practised dexterity causing Sherlock to start. When did she…? Where did she…? He hadn't even noticed Rose removing the condom from its wrapper. Clearly she still possessed the skills to shock and delight him.

When she took him into her, another involuntary moan escaped his lips.

He knew the thrill of her touch, her scent, the way her body moved above his—familiar but capable of introducing something different. This time she was in command, leading him slowly and patiently through layer upon layer of exquisite sensations.

Sherlock wasted no time in turning the tables. He pleasured Rose with everything he had at his disposal, gift-wrapped or not. His explorations began with painstaking attention to detail. Rose's soft sighs of delight were something to cherish until her own efforts caused his entire body to throb with delicious anticipation. Primitive desires took over. Twin hearts pounded hard and fast against each other as Sherlock drove her with tireless energy. Rose matched his pace. Breathless, her body shuddered and strained as he pushed her to the brink. As she clung to him, his own senses were tangled until his body responded with a hard, fast orgasm.

They rolled from one another, chests heaving, skin flushed and faces aglow. He'd almost forgotten how energetic and enthusiastic their love-making could be when they had the time to luxuriate in one another.

Rose reached out and curled her fingers around his.

"Let's do that again," she said, puffing lightly.

Sherlock rumbled a closed-mouth laugh and turned to her. Cupping her face, he pressed a soft kiss to her lips.

Easing back, he said, "Polyisoprene, extra thin, ultra-sensitive."

Her brow wrinkled in confusion at first, before a smile broke out on her face.

"Oh, so close," she said. "But I think it's ultra-thin, extra sensitive. And silky smooth."

Sherlock rolled away from Rose, and sat up, swinging his legs from the bed. Pulling open the bedside table drawer, he tutted as he checked the box. "Silky smooth," he read. "There's always _something_!"

Rose chuckled behind him, before she too left the bed.

"You are amazing, though," she said, making for the ensuite bathroom.

"I know."

"I'm going to have a quick shower," Rose said, pausing in the doorway. "Why don't you text Justine and let her know we're awake now."

"Why? We've got almost an hour left."

"There's no point stretching out our time together if Grace's awake and moody. Besides, I've already got what I wanted from you."

Rose disappeared into the bathroom with a light laugh.

"No, you didn't," Sherlock murmured as he grabbed a handful of tissues. "Because if you did, you'd know about it. I'm pretty potent."

"What was that?" she called out.

"Nothing."

Sherlock cleaned himself up, just like in the good old days. If they hadn't used a condom, Rose would get pregnant, obviously. Breastfeeding or not. He had a high sperm count, of this he was sure. The quality and vitality of his semen were far superior than the average man. He would only have to wink at Rose, and she'd ovulate. They'd have an entire brood in no time! Grace would have many siblings.

Sherlock paused in retrieving his pyjama bottoms. What was he thinking? Did he really believe that? His heart caught in his throat. Of course he did, he decided, as a warmth spread through him. He was a _father!_ And a damn good one at that. So first things first. Time to get his daughter back.

He pulled on his pyjama bottoms, thinking he'd feel strange texting their nanny when he was naked.

Having pressed Send on his message to Justine, he rose from the bed, phone in hand, thinking about ordering Chinese for dinner. A smile grew on his face as he thought of Grace and holding her in one arm while he attempted to eat with the other as he had done the other night, waving away Justine and her well- meaning protests. It wasn't his duty to share in the responsibilities of looking after his daughter. It was a privilege.

But his phone immediately began ringing and vibrating in his hand before he could check the online menu of his favourite Chinese restaurant. He glanced at the screen, his thumb hovering over it, expecting to see Justine's caller ID. Surprisingly, it said _Molly Hooper_.

Sherlock suddenly felt very self-conscious, as if Molly would immediately detect he'd been having sex with somebody who wasn't her. He cleared his throat and shook loose those nonsense thoughts. It must be important if Molly was phoning him.

"Molly," he said smoothly. "To what do I owe the ple—"

"Is John with you?" Molly asked.

He detected a sense of urgency in her voice.

"No, I'm… Well, I'm not at home." _Or on a case for that matter._ Sherlock turned this way and that, looking for his t-shirt. Perhaps he should cover up fully. "What's wrong?"

"S-sorry. It's just that I… I'm at John's, with Rosie. And he should be home by now. I thought maybe…"

She trailed off as Sherlock checked his watch on the bedside table.

"It's only four," he said. "Doesn't he normally finish at five?"

"No, he…" A familiar squawk interrupted her. "Sorry. I'm holding Rosie."

"Is she okay?"

"She's fine. It's just that he's late. He said he'd be home by two."

"Do you want me to come around and take over?"

"No, Sherlock. I'm fine with Rosie. I don't have anywhere I need—"

"Are you talking to me?" Rose called out from the bathroom.

Sherlock made a weak attempt at covering up the microphone on his phone and replied, "I'm on the phone."

"Oh… God, sorry," Molly said. Dammit. She'd heard Rose! "I didn't mean to—"

"I'll come over."

"No. It's fine."

There was silence while Sherlock's mind tried to kick into gear. _John's not home, but why was he supposed to be home at 2pm instead of five?_

"Did you ring the surgery?" he asked.

"Yes, they said he left at twelve. As far as they know, he's having the afternoon off, but he told me he was going to see his therapist—he had a twelve-thirty appointment—and then he'd come home after that.

"Therapist," Sherlock said on an exhale. He tried to conjure up the therapist he'd encountered while he was as high as a kite. He didn't remember deducing whether or not she was any good. "Look, Molly. I'll ring Mrs Hudson and see if John's upstairs. Maybe he—"

"No, I'll ring her."

Sherlock exhaled deeply.

"Right, okay," he said, bowing his head and rubbing his fingers between his brows. "Let me know if he's not there and I'll check his last known whereabouts."

"If you're sure. I don't want to interrupt you or any—"

"You're not interrupting me."

Sherlock clenched his jaw, immediately regretting his sharp tone.

"Okay," Molly said. "I'll talk to you later."

"I'm sure he's fine."

When Sherlock heard no response from Molly, he checked his screen. She'd ended the call.

By the time Rose re-entered the bedroom, Sherlock was already dressed, save for buttoning up his cuffs. Molly had texted him that John wasn't at 221B, so he'd replied to her that he'd visit the therapist's house and track John from there.

He didn't fail to notice Rose's face fall when she laid eyes on his attire.

"Where are you…?" she began.

"I won't be long," he replied. "Molly said John's gone AWOL. Probably nothing." He tried to keep his tone light, but something niggled at him. This wasn't the first time John Watson had gone missing.

Rose remained silent as she started dressing and Sherlock drew on his jacket. He knew what that silence meant. He was dressed as Sherlock Holmes and not Scott Williams, which indicated he wasn't suitably attired for a stroll through the park incognito, nor lolling about on the sofa with a baby in his arms.

As Rose started combing her wet hair, he said, "I can pick up some Chinese takeaway for dinner if you like?"

"Just buy whatever you want," Rose said, with a half smile. She crossed the room and gave his arm a light rub as she passed him. "I can't eat just anything these days, remember. I'll be fine making myself a salad."

Sherlock followed Rose out onto the landing.

"Are you sure you're okay with me ducking out for a few minutes?" he asked.

She turned to face him, and he was relieved to see her expression softening.

"Of course I am."

"I don't like leaving you alone."

As he spoke, the front door clicked shut, and the unmistakeable sound of his daughter protesting filled the foyer.

"We'll have none of that," they heard Justine say as her voice drifted up the stairwell. "Mummy and Daddy would love to see your gummy smile."

The corners of Rose's mouth curved upwards as she met Sherlock's gaze.

"I'm not alone," she said.

Returning her smile, he then pressed a kiss to Rose's lips.

"I won't be long. I bet he's fallen asleep on the bus. Probably making his way back from Elephant and Castle as we speak."

Rose nodded distractedly.

"You can tell him, you know," she said.

"Tell him what?"

"About us."

"Oh. You're okay with everything now?"

"Well, your bruises are healed, and your eye's okay. Maybe my initial anger has disappeared as well. I might forgive him eventually."

Sherlock felt excitement bubble inside him. Tell John? He'd kept this secret from his best friend for so long he hadn't actually planned how he would go about revealing it.

"Hello?" Justine's voice floated upwards once more.

"Coming," Rose replied. She turned to Sherlock before they descended.

"I don't want you to feel guilty about leaving me to work on cases or spend time with your friends," she told him. "Of course I'll miss you. I love spending time alone with you and as a family. But we both do need time to do our own things. That's just as important. Okay?"

She reached for Sherlock and planted a kiss on his lips.

Rose preceded Sherlock downstairs but stood aside too let him take Grace from Justine. As Justine summarised their daughter's sleep and feed times, Sherlock only had eyes and ears for Grace.

"Yes, I know," he said. "But I'm unable to facilitate your meal requirements right now. Mummy's got a fresh serve coming right up, so she'll feed you while I go find Uncle John. Probably got himself lost or kidnapped again."

"What?" asked Rose.

"Just kidding," Sherlock said, with a swift smile.

He blew a raspberry kiss on each of Grace's cheeks, then once more gave Rose a goodbye kiss.

Upon leaving St George's Fields, he reflected on the fact that his life couldn't be more perfect.


	104. Oh, Sherlock. You Know Nothing

Sherlock pressed the doorbell one more time. When nobody answered, he squinted through the frosted glass door panels. No shadows, no life inside. He stood back from the portico, looking to his right, towards the garage door and beyond.

Before deciding on a method by which he could stealthily enter the property, Sherlock peered in through the bay window that faced the street. No movement in the sitting room on the roadside. He couldn't see all the way into the conservatory at the back, where he had deduced John's therapist held her sessions. In fact, hadn't Sherlock himself almost passed out in the chair she reserved for her clients? Although most of his faculties had been compromised, he had detected John's deodorant there on that fateful day Billy had nicknamed CASK Day.

With an internal shudder of the evening he had almost been suffocated to death, Sherlock made his way to the wooden gate on the other side of the garage. He checked his surroundings first before trying the latch. Locked, naturally. Windsor Street was quieter than the last time he was here. Today, there was no ambulance, limousine, nor sports car driven by a determined senior, spinning out of control and colliding with rubbish bins, while a high-as-a-kite Consulting Detective shivered and trembled, handcuffed, in the boot.

On an ordinary day, Sherlock would've left the house. Nobody home, nobody to answer the door. But today wasn't an ordinary day. His best friend was missing and this may be his last known location. As flippant as he had sounded to Rose—that John may have simply fallen asleep on the bus—Sherlock knew that something that delayed the widowed father from returning home for almost three hours was nothing so trivial.

After one more cursory check along the street, Sherlock shrugged out of his coat and tossed it over the gate. He then backed up a few metres, before coming at the wall to the adjacent house in a parkour-inspired wall run. He propelled himself upward, before twisting and planting his hands on the top of the wooden gate, allowing himself to vault over the top of it and land with a slight stagger on the other side.

Coming out of his crouch, he dusted off his hands then stooped to retrieve his coat. Pulling his arms through the sleeves, he quietly took stock of the major muscles and joints that were now protesting. Almost miscalculated there. Adrenaline coursed through his veins, his heart hammering from the sudden burst of physical activity. He was desperately out of shape. That trick could have gone horribly wrong. It was muscle memory and a great deal of luck that brought success after all this time. Definitely another argument against excessive drug use.

By stealth, he proceeded along the length of the house and around to the backyard. A quick glance through the kitchen window told him nobody was preparing an evening meal. In fact, there were no lights on in the house at all, and given that dusk rapidly approached, it was highly unlikely an occupant hadn't turned on one or more lights.

The conservatory jutted out into the garden, the room allowing light to enter from three sides. The windows Sherlock approached meant he would end up peering over the therapist's shoulder. Quite confident there was no session in progress, Sherlock took a moment to allow his eyes to adjust to the gloom within.

A figure lay sprawled on the rug between the two chairs. Sherlock's breath caught in his throat.

_John!_

He sprinted around the building to the glass doors at the back of the conservatory.

"John!" he called out, jiggling the door handle. Of course it was bloody locked!

Sherlock banged on the glass out of frustration, calling his friend's name once more, but John Watson didn't stir.

 _Think!_ he admonished himself. _Look! See! Observe!_ Just how dire was John's situation?

As he reached into his coat pocket for his ever-present lock-picking kit, Sherlock willed himself to slow his own breathing to get a better look at John's.

The ex-army doctor's chest rose and fell a fraction, slow and regular—a good sign.

Not dead then.

Sherlock managed to steady himself long enough to retrieve a tension wrench and a sparrow hook, perfect for the cheap, unbranded Euro cylinder in front of him. What were the chances the therapist hadn't secured the top and bottom bolts? He was counting on it.

Crouching in front of the door, he set to work.

The tension wrench easily slipped into the cylinder, so Sherlock applied a light pressure until the whole barrel turned a little. Inserting the pick and sliding it to the back of the keyway, he proceeded to pick, feeling for the first binding pin.

He could do this when his nerves were frayed. He could do this when he was imprisoned in a room in a rehabilitation centre, coming down off a drug binge, nerves shot, blurred vision and shaking hands, with bent hair pins he'd stolen from a nurse. So he could definitely meet the challenge while his best friend lay on the floor in front of him, more than likely unconscious. He could—

_Oh, for Christ's sake!_

Sherlock downed tools and wiped his clammy hands on the fabric of his trousers. He was a bit out of practise.

"I'll be with you in a moment," he muttered under his breath to his friend as he started again. John moved his head a little. Sherlock froze, tension wrench still held at an angle, sparrow pick lightly pressed against pin number four.

John was stirring.

"John!" Sherlock called again through the door. John's movements stilled for a moment, except for a twitch in his left hand. "I won't be long," Sherlock muttered once more. "The last time I had to do this," he said, more to himself, but it helped to pretend to converse with John, "was to get out of that God-awful place Mycroft had squirrelled me away in. Do you remember?" With a tiny grunt, Sherlock set the second last pin. "Well, you and Mary were…" He let his last words hang as he concentrated on the last one. John and Mary had been estranged at the time. No point in saying it out loud, not that John could hear him.

"Thank Christ for that!" he exclaimed, as the last pin held in place and the cylinder shifted. He pushed open the door—thankful that the bolts hadn't been secured in place—and scrambled over to his friend.

"John," he said, bending over him. "Can you—" His attention was drawn to a tiny dart protruding from John's neck. "Hello," he drawled, addressing the foreign object. Taking hold using his fingers as pincers, he said, "I'm not sure we've met before." He plucked the dart from John's neck and held it up to catch the light. "Why don't we get better acquainted." He held it to his nose and sniffed.

"Sis…" John said, through an exhausted exhale.

"Shh! ...Thinking!" Sherlock's eyes remained fixed on the projectile used to incapacitate his friend. Had he ever seen one of these before? James Swandale, the Poison Giant, their foe from last year, used a rudimentary version in a blow pipe, but this… this was…

"Elegant."

"Sis…" John said again.

"What's that?" Sherlock asked, still not managing to drag his eyes from the poisoned dart.

John made a weak attempt at rising onto his elbows.

"Your… sis…ter," he repeated weakly.

"Sorry, what?"

"… fuck's sake…" John said, hoisting himself to a sitting position.

"No, no, no, no," Sherlock said, pressing a free hand to John's shoulder. "Don't try to get up. Your body needs time to expel the contents of the dart."

"I'm… f-fine," John replied, but he slid back into a reclined position anyway.

"Just take your time," Sherlock said, rising from his crouch and still holding the dart between his fingers. Looking about him, he added, "I have to make sure the house is secure."

He left John's side and crossed the room for the hallway.

"Where's your therapist?" he asked, taking a cursory glance around the living room opposite. Without hearing John's reply, Sherlock strode into the kitchen and scanned the area briefly for signs of life. He deposited the dart into a small evidence bag he happened to have on him.

Did the therapist meet the same fate as John, or worse? He paused, his attention drawn to the staircase. He strained to listen for movement on the floor above.

Sherlock wasted no time in searching the rest of the house. Satisfied that it was quite empty, he returned to the conservatory.

"Do you know who did—"

"Why didn't you tell me…" John said, now sitting up and leaning against the armchair Sherlock had once used. He paused as if to catch his breath. "… you had another bloody… family member?"

"S-sorry?" Sherlock's stomach dropped. How had John found out about Grace? Had Molly told him?

"Eurus!"

Sherlock tilted his head. John was making no sense.

"Your… _secret sister_!"

Sherlock blinked a couple of times in non-comprehension.

"I…" he said, his brow drawn down in thought. "I… don't have a… a secret sister."

Had the poison addled John's head a little?

Sherlock approached John and asked him tentatively, "What's the last thing you remember?"

"Your sister… as my therapist... she shot me."

So many things didn't compute.

"And where is she now?"

John shook his head.

"What did she say to you?"

"Wait…" John said, holding up a limp hand. "The real therapist. Airing cupboard… somewhere."

Sherlock was immediately on his feet. He traversed the house, upstairs and down once more, opening every single cupboard, peering underneath beds and tables, searching every available space where a person could be stashed—injured or dead. There was no actual airing cupboard.

He paused in a room that looked like a study. Several papers lying scattered on a desk, plus notes scrawled on a calendar told him the real therapist's possible whereabouts.

When he returned to John, his friend was sitting up in the chair, leaning forward, holding his face in his hands.

"I'm not sure the therapist met with foul play," Sherlock told him. "There are several indicators on her desk of travel abroad for a conf—"

Sherlock suddenly cut off his speech when he heard the sound of the front door unlocking. John froze. He'd heard it too.

"Quick!" John said, rising on shaky limbs and gesturing toward the French doors.

"I'm on it," Sherlock said, instead striding towards the front of the house.

"Sherlock!" John protested in a fierce whisper.

In the darkened passageway, Sherlock waited patiently, pressed against the side of the staircase, until the occupant had deposited a suitcase inside and had closed the front door.

They could've escaped, but Sherlock wanted to be sure of one thing—that the real therapist was alive and well.

"Please don't be alarmed," he said, in a smooth, low voice, stepping out from the shadows. He held out one hand in a placating manner, but his gesture didn't stop the woman from gasping. Her eyes, shaped by wire-framed spectacles, widened in fear.

"There's been a misunderstanding," Sherlock swiftly added, reaching for the hallway light switch. Flicking it on, he said, "I'm not here to harm you or damage your property." He paused, hoping for a hint of recognition on the therapist's face. He could see now that John's fake therapist bore only a passing resemblance to the real one that stood before him. And she had been travelling abroad, he observed, for quite some time.

"You're…" she began, and Sherlock bristled in anticipation of her recognising him. "… trespassing." She seemed emboldened by her own statement and stood taller.

"Yes. Yes, I am, but purely by mistake."

"Wait a minute," she said, her eyes narrowing. "You're that detective. The one on the internet."

"Yes! Good, you recognise me. Sherlock Holmes."

He stuck out a hand, which the therapist regarded in distaste.

"And…" Sherlock said, turning his failed handshake into a sweeping gesture to the room behind him, "my colleague, Doctor Watson, is with me."

"What are you doing in my house?" Her eyes flicked in the direction of the top of the stairs, prompting Sherlock to wonder if she had something to hide.

"Ah, yes… that I can explain," he said. _Explain what? Come on…. Think!_ "You see… Doctor Watson… h-he lost his wife, quite recently." The therapist quirked a suspicious brow as Sherlock spoke. "Perhaps you read about it… on the internet…. Well, anyway… he hasn't taken it very well. Understandable really. He's been seeing a therapist. Another therapist. And she's complete rubbish. Won't mention any names, but there you have it. We're here because John… Doctor Watson… heard of you and thinks very highly of you. He insisted on coming here today, even though you were quite clearly not available. Conference, was it? Switzerland? Sounds lovely… well, anyway… I'm afraid he got himself a bit worked up and he managed to break into your residence… through the back door… I think it was unlocked anyway… and…" Sherlock scratched his head in an effort to figure out the rest of his woeful story. "And I've followed him in. Now I think I've calmed him down enough to convince him to abandon his plan, and if you would be so kind as to let us slip out the back door again, we won't bother you at all."

"The door was unlocked?"

Was that all she heard?

"Yes," Sherlock said, clearing his throat. "Cheap European lock. Entirely unreliable."

The therapist made a move to get past Sherlock, but he held up a hand again.

"If we could leave without Doctor Watson knowing that I've just told you he's emotionally unstable… he's a proud man... professional integrity and all that... I would really appreciate it."

Her lips parted, but nothing came out.

"Thank you," he said, taking advantage of her moment of doubt. "Now if you have any further concerns, please don't hesitate to ring me. The number's on my website." Sherlock spun on his heels before turning the corner and escaping once more into the conservatory.

John was standing by the French doors with his hand on the door latch. Sherlock gave him a quick nod.

"Go!" he said, crossing the room in three quick strides.

"What did you—"

"Just go!" Sherlock urged him.

After they'd escaped into the garden and rounded the corner towards the side fence, John turned to him.

"What did you tell her?"

"That you've gone mad."

"That I've—"

"Keep going!" Sherlock insisted, gesturing towards the wooden gate.

With a tut, John informed him that the gate was padlocked.

"Yes, I know," Sherlock replied irritably. "Climb over it."

"Why can't we go out through the front door like normal people?"

"Since when are we normal people?"

When John gave him a stern look, Sherlock added with a sigh, "Because I implied that you'd be too embarrassed and humiliated for her to see you."

John muttered something imperceptible under his breath.

"Sorry?" Sherlock asked.

"I _have_ just been poisoned."

"A few hours ago. And now you're perfectly fine. Look…" Sherlock approached the gate, and curled his hand around the top of the wooden palings. "Hand," he said. Pointing to the supporting rail, he said, "Foot." He gestured to the side brick wall and added, "Other foot. Pull yourself up and over. Child's play."

"… perfectly capable…" John muttered.

Sherlock watched, with growing incredulity, John's attempts at hauling himself over the gate. With a loud thud and a curse, he deduced that John had landed adequately.

Within seconds, Sherlock joined him on the other side.

"Hope we can get a cab from here," he said, striding ahead of his friend.

* * *

In the relatively private confines of the taxi on their way to dropping John home, Sherlock interrogated his friend about what had transpired in Windsor Street, while John also attempted, in vain, to get Sherlock to explain how he had kept a sister secret for so long.

"She pretended to be your therapist," Sherlock summarised, overriding John's protests, "and your bit on the side—"

"Sherlock."

"And Faith Smith. And now she's pretending to be a sister I never had."

"I'm not sure she's pretending. Mycroft—"

"I don't have a sister, John."

"Yeah, but Mycroft said—"

"Said what?"

John gritted his teeth. Perhaps Sherlock should back off a little and let the man have his say.

"Mycroft dismissed what he'd said earlier, but the impression I got—"

"His _words_ , John. What did he say, exactly?"

John exhaled deeply.

"When you went off the rails," he began, "and he was using government resources to track you, I called him on it. He said something along the lines of you being a security concern and the fact that he was your brother didn't change anything, as it didn't the last time."

"The last time? Clearly he's talking about the Magnussen thing."

"No… no, I don't think so. He said… God, what did he say?" John bowed his head in thought. "That's right. He said, it didn't the last time and it won't with Sherlock. Doesn't that imply the last time wasn't you?"

Sherlock shrugged lightly, but internally he wasn't feeling as flippant. His skin began to prickle.

"There was something in his eyes after he dismissed my comment much later," John went on. "Like he desperately wanted me to believe him."

Sherlock tilted his head back against the seat to ruminate on John's words. Mycroft's hiding something? Surely they didn't have a secret sister. How utterly ridiculous!

"And what did this Eurus woman say? Her exact words. Don't leave anything out."

John folded his arms in front of him and regarded the view out the window for a moment, tapping his arm in thought.

Turning back to Sherlock, he said, "She didn't say much… You had chips. And you were nicer, she said. Not what she expected. Used some ridiculous Northern accent."

Synapses began firing in Sherlock's Mind Palace.

_You're not what I expected, Mr Holmes. You're… nicer._

Dread rippled through him. Somebody had been toying with him and he didn't like it.

"And…" John continued, "she had a note. Faith's note. Culverton Smith gave it to her after some friend… a mutual friend, she said… put them in touch. What note was that?"

"What _friend_?"

"Dunno. She didn't say."

John let him process his answers in silence for a few seconds before he prompted Sherlock about the note.

"Oh. It was nothing much," Sherlock said, waving a hand dismissively. "Faith wrote on it that her father wanted to kill someone. I deduced trivial things about it: she lived alone, she was a keen cook, but she had a teeny-tiny kitchen."

John nodded into the silence, which Sherlock was sure was filled with the thudding of his heart.

"She said she added those deductions," John mused.

"More than likely," Sherlock remarked, a hint of disappointment in himself marring his tone. She'd made him perform. Like a circus monkey.

"But you didn't get the big one, apparently."

Sherlock stopped breathing, his throat tightening.

"What?"

John gave a light shrug.

"The big… clue?" he added.

The white noise buzzing in Sherlock's mind increased its intensity.

"Baker Street!" he called to the cab driver. "Turn here!"

"What?" asked John as the cabbie glanced in the rearview mirror. "No… no, no, no, Sherlock. I have to get home. Rosie, remember!"

"Stop the car!"

After the cab squealed to a halt, Sherlock alighted amid John's protests. He didn't have time for explanations. He had to get home and examine the note. How could he have missed another clue? A big one! In his drugged out state, he had still been capable of observing, but he hadn't been firing on all cylinders.

A missed clue!

Sherlock crossed the road and hailed a cab approaching from the opposite direction as John's taxi continued on.

"Baker Street!" he bid the cabbie as he climbed in.

.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The scene where Sherlock finds the hidden "Miss me!" writing on the note actually belongs to TLD, but I kinda forgot about its significance and therefore Sherlock's lowkey reaction to finding the note again in my previous chapter doesn't seem appropriate. But I think it fits well here anyway, with Sherlock prompted to take a closer look at the note after hearing John's story.
> 
> The whole therapist "in a sack in the airing cupboard" thing seriously annoyed me, if only for the idea that if she was in there for quite some time (between John's first visit and his last) then surely the smell of her body decomposing would've alerted curious neighbours! I hope you don't mind the liberty I've taken here. Just assume in my fic that Eurus was having a little joke with John about the therapist's whereabouts.
> 
> Another tardy update, though. Sorry about that. Busy schedule, low enthusiasm for writing. Please say hi to let me know you're still out there and reading! I would love to hear from you, and I'll try really hard to get back to my normal updating frequency.


	105. Lockdown in Progress

"Sherlock."

"It's him. It's Moriarty."

As expected, Sherlock was met with a brief silence on the phone as John digested what he'd said.

"Moriarty's dead," John said slowly, as if he now wasn't convinced of his own words.

"Yes. I know."

Sherlock shortened his stride. He was halfway to St George's Fields. He didn't know why he was heading there.

Yes. Yes, he did. Because Rose and Grace were the only aspects of his life he was sure of at the moment. And he needed somewhere quiet to think, without the possibility of clients dropping in and interrupting him with the triviality of their lives.

As a light drizzle dampened his cheeks, Sherlock drew in a quick breath and said to John, "This is it. This is his next move. Whoever she is, she's carrying out Moriarty's final wishes. She has to have been in his employ."

At his own words, Sherlock's chest tightened. 'Miss me' scrawled across Faith Smith's note told the bigger story. A mystery to be solved! This is what he thrived on. It's what he did. Why was he feeling so anxious then?

"Look, Sherlock," came John's steady voice. "Molly's still here. She's happy to stay overnight and babysit. I can come over if… if you like."

Sherlock stopped at the edge of the kerb, his head bowed to the gutter, now glistening with rain drops. What was _his_ next move? He was in a mind to stride into Mycroft's second office—Friday night: he'd be staying back to have a glass of brandy with the Home Secretary. He didn't know why the minor government official did that. Mycroft couldn't stand the woman. Would Sherlock have it out with his sibling, then and there? His brother was obviously hiding something. A secret sister? For God's sake!

But something told Sherlock that demanding an explanation from Mycroft was going to be like extracting teeth. So, was he in need of John's company? And why was John willing to leave his own daughter to seek out…

…danger and thrills and excitement?

Of course.

He was John Watson. Soldier. Ex-army doctor. His partner in (solving) crime.

"Dunno," he told John, his mind and heart at odds. Turning on his heels, he continued along Baker Street.

Should he go back to his flat and mull over this with John, or continue heading to St George's Fields and lock himself in his Mind Palace, alarming and worrying Rose in the process?

Or, more dramatically, confront Mycroft?

"I'm thinking of heading over to Westminster Palace," he said, testing the waters with John as he turned the corner into George Street. "Have it out with Mycroft. He obviously knows something."

"Hang on a minute," said John. Sherlock blinked against the rain, which grew heavier as John went on. "You know Mycroft's gonna clam up if you accuse him outright."

Heaving a sigh, Sherlock left the kerb and sought shelter just inside the Tesco Express behind him.

"I know several wrestling moves," he remarked, vigorously ruffling the rain drops from his hair.

"Yeah, I've seen your wrestling moves. Look, Mycroft doesn't respond to your sudden outbursts of violence. For him, it's par for the course. I think he'll only tell the truth if he's actually wetting himself."

At John's words, a smile tugged at one corner of Sherlock's mouth. Mycroft Holmes. A slightly _hysterical_ Mycroft Holmes. The vision of his older brother, aged fifteen at Hull Fair, came to the forefront of his mind.

"Clowns," he murmured.

"Sorry, what?" John asked.

"Meet me at Baker Street in ten minutes."

* * *

Rose pressed the power button on the electric bottle steriliser. Folding her arms in front of her, she turned and leant back against the kitchen counter. Every bone in her body throbbed with a dull ache from lack of sleep. Her head buzzed. She glanced at the clock on the microwave oven. Ten past four. Not even worth returning to bed. She'd been rocking Grace back to sleep for the last hour. The infant had been waking every couple of hours since early evening.

Where the bloody hell was Sherlock and his magic touch?

Rose drew a hand to her nape and gently massaged the tight muscles on either side of her neck.

Tea, she thought after a moment, before turning to the kettle. She'd watch something on Sky while expressing milk. Resist the urge to text Sherlock. So much for bringing home Chinese food for dinner! Not that she was going to eat any of it.

The fluttering in Rose's stomach intensified when she thought about what could've kept Sherlock away this time—what prevented him calling or texting. Since he'd become a hands-on dad in the last few weeks, he had let Rose know, via a text message or a phone call, where'd he be whenever he left St George's Fields. This time, he'd left to search for John Watson and she'd heard nothing from him. That was twelve hours ago! Rose could only imagine what could've happened. This was Sherlock Holmes. Of course he'd get into the worst kind of strife.

Rose slowly filled the kettle. Why hadn't she sent him a text herself? At midnight she'd been tempted to. Placing the kettle onto its holder and flicking on the switch, her shoulders drooped. She knew why. She didn't want him to think she couldn't cope. After he'd left that afternoon, she had called Justine to let her know it was okay for the Wilsons to have the weekend off to travel to Blackpool. She thought Sherlock would be here the entire time.

 _I can't do this own my own_ , she thought, in a rush of panic that threatened to overwhelm her. _I'm such a rubbish mother._

She glanced at the baby monitor that sat on the end of the kitchen counter, daring the steady indicator to blink and the low hum of static to burst into life. Instead, she was startled to hear the latch of the front door click back— _Sherlock_!—and she swallowed the sob that had risen in her throat.

Rose waited for him in the kitchen. He'd figure it out. The rest of the flat was in darkness, except for the light spilling from the open kitchen door.

Sherlock appeared in the doorway a few seconds later dressed only in his suit. Rose deduced he'd already shed his coat at the door. He looked as tired as Rose felt. No doubt he'd been up all night as well.

"What's wrong?" he immediately asked.

Rose assumed the multitude of worries etched onto her own face were rather telling. Her eyes stung with tears, but she strived to keep them at bay.

"Nothing," she hastily replied. Her own evening struggles instantly took a back seat at the sight of him. "What happened?" she asked. "How's John? Did you find him?"

"What?" Sherlock asked, slowly approaching Rose. "Oh," he said, pausing and bringing a hand to his nape and rubbing it there. "Yes. He's fine." He blinked a few times as if to reset. Pulling up in front of Rose, he bent closer and said, "Hello, Rose," before planting a soft kiss on her cheek.

"Sherlock."

"He was shot," he added, straightening up. "But he's fine now."

"What?"

"With a tranquiliser gun. Nothing to worry about."

"But… why… how…"

Sherlock turned from her.

"Did you boil the kettle?"

Her lips parted, but her answer seemed superfluous right now. Sherlock retrieved mugs from the overhead cabinet, while conflicting thoughts swam through Rose's head. Be an effective counsellor or a concerned girlfriend? Why couldn't she be both? _Resist the urge to overwhelm him with your own hysterical emotions, Rose!_ Obviously this thing with John was worrying him. He'd shut her out, if she overreacted, and before she knew it, he'd be back on drugs again. All for a bloody case, most likely. Or for John Watson.

Sherlock had retrieved a teaspoon and was already spooning sugar into the cups.

"Her Majesty keeping you up," he said. Statement or question? He had adopted Bob's term of affection for Grace, Rose noticed.

"Yes, she's trying it on," she replied, attempting to keep her tone light and casual.

Sherlock glanced up at her, giving her a resigned smile, before his attention was drawn once more to fixing them each a cup of tea.

Rose continued, feeling the need to fill the silence.

"And so I didn't think it worth going back to bed."

Sherlock's eyes flicked to the electric steriliser that had clicked off before he'd walked in the door. The lid was now filled with steam.

He nodded his understanding. He'd worked it out then. She was sterilising a couple of bottles as well as the breast pump.

"So who shot John?" Rose asked.

Sherlock emitted a steady exhale as he poured water into the mugs.

"That's what I'm trying to figure out."

Rose let the silence stretch before them and watched, with growing impatience, the steam rising from their mugs as Sherlock crossed the kitchen.

She cleared her throat and asked, "Any theories, so far?" Hopefully, using words she'd heard Sherlock say on more than one occasion would enable him to open up to her. From his demeanour, and the fact that someone close to him had been involved, she knew he was bottling up his own emotions so logic and reason would dominate. From past experience, this was the Sherlock Holmes she now feared. Did she have to tread on eggshells here?

But he was here, in her flat, and he'd greeted her with a kiss. He'd paused his own thoughts long enough to ask about his daughter. These were signs that her Sherlock was still present. And that was the trick to this, wasn't it? Keep _her Sherlock_ around.

"I have two theories, and neither of them pleasant," he replied, adding milk to their tea. He placed the milk container down, then leant against the kitchen counter and muttered, "One I can safely ignore, but the other…"

Rose struggled to hear the rest of his words. She only caught one name.

"Mycroft?" she repeated.

Sherlock straightened up and appeared to rouse himself from his thoughts.

"Sorry, Rose," he said, a sheepish smile stretching across his face. "I'm not making any sense." He left the counter and drew Rose to him. "Ignore me," he said in a low voice, before ducking his head to her. "Have I said hello yet?"

"Not... properly."

Her reply had barely left her lips before Sherlock kissed her. It was light and sweet with barely a whisper of pressure, but full of promise.

Easing back, he said again, "Hello, Rose. Sorry I'm late."

His grey-green eyes glistened and Rose took a moment to kickstart her breathing.

Placing her hands flat against his chest and applying a light pressure, she said, "Don't ask me to ignore you, Sherlock." Her eyes locked on his. "I want to help."

"You are. By being here."

"No." She shook her head. "Not by being here. I want to do more." Sherlock dropped his arms, and turned from her. "You know I'm capable," Rose went on as Sherlock retrieved the milk to put away. "You can run your theories by me. I'll listen when you want to think out loud. I'll do research for you, chat to people you need information from—you know how people like to open up to me. I'll go through lists of stuff. I'm good with paperwork. I don't know. Something. _Anything_." Sherlock had closed the fridge door and stood in front of it, slipping his hands inside his trouser pockets as he listened, his head tilted to one side. Was he wondering what the hell was up with her?

"Don't keep me out of the loop this time," Rose pushed on. "Don't put up barriers." Before she knew it, her eyes had filled with tears once more. Oh, God. Just what she didn't want to do: get all emotional. But she ploughed on, regardless, her airways thickening as she did so. "Just… don't… don't do that again."

Sherlock's own eyes had grown rounder. In a second, he was in front of her again.

"Don't," Rose said, sniffling as Sherlock wound his arms around her. "I'm not upset."

He bowed his head to hers, touching foreheads.

"I didn't realise you'd been so worried," he said.

"I'm not—"

"Time got away from me," he added, straightening up. "I was at my flat with John, figuring this out, then wandering around London looking for members of my Homeless Network. It won't be like last time." He paused, setting his mouth in a grim smile before continuing. "I promise." Sherlock brought his hand up, cupping Rose's face. "I've never been so appalled at my own behaviour before," he went on, his voice like gravel. "I won't go near the stuff again, or push you out of my life. I'm sorry. It was despicable of me."

As Sherlock's thumb skimmed her cheek, a warmth drizzled through Rose. She cast aside her potential over-emotional response and asked, "Can you tell me what happened yesterday?"

Sherlock dropped his hand and gave Rose a lop-sided smile.

"Tea," he said. "And then I'll tell you everything."

* * *

"Here," Rose said, handing Sherlock her phone so he could ring Billy.

Two cups of tea later, Sherlock had outlined his plan that required the assistance of his protégé. Rose had remained quiet and attentive during his recount of the events involving the mysterious impersonator. Her only objection had been to his request for Billy's new contact details, since the chemistry undergraduate had gone into hiding once more, Rose had informed him.

Sherlock reassured Rose that his need for Billy's services didn't involve any illegal substances.

"Billy," Sherlock said after hearing the man's voicemail message, "I need a circus clown and a person who can pose as a young girl. Ring me."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's short!
> 
> Thanks so much for your ongoing patience and continuing to come back to my story chapter after chapter, especially ½ a million words later.
> 
> This will be my last update before Christmas, so I hope you all have a wonderful and joyous festive season, and I'll see you in the New Year!
> 
> elbafo


	106. All Those Complicated Little Emotions

"O'course, I could grow me own hair," Felix said, gesturing toward the long, dark wig, whose tangles Rose was attempting to tame with a stiff-bristled brush. "But I'm recedin'. Just like me old man." He ran his fingers along the circumference of his crown.

Across the room, Melly, the thick-set entertainer, snorted.

"The baldness gene's on your mother's side," he said as he rummaged through a thread-bare carpet bag, double-checking bits of costume and accessories.

"What? Me mum weren't bald!"

Rose chuckled at the banter between Felix, the "actor of restricted growth"—as he had described himself—and Melly, the whiteface clown, though quite clearly free of facepaint at the moment. Stealing a glance in Sherlock's direction, she noticed the Consulting Detective deep in conversation with Bob, Rose's security detail. It was only Bob's presence that leant this bizarre meeting in her living room any credibility, because she wasn't so sure of Sherlock's state of mind at present.

As Melly and Felix began rallying insults at one another, Rose tuned in to Sherlock and Bob's conversation.

"…disadvantage of putting the management of his home security into the palm of his hand," Sherlock was saying, "means it can be placed into the palm of somebody else's hand."

He straightened up and lightly tossed his smartphone from one hand to the other, a devilish grin pulling at his lips. He met Rose's gaze and gave her a quick wink. Warmth momentarily drizzled through her, but the tightness in her chest remained.

"Wi-fi cameras," Bob added, his head bowed over a tablet screen on the table in front of him, "security alert diversion, toggling of light switches, and spontaneous… what?"

"Bleedin' from the eyes," Felix chimed in. "My idea, that."

"No," Sherlock said. Turning to Bob, he muttered, "Forget it. Stupid idea."

"Where's Bill?" Felix said, looking around. "e's meant to be getting' some blood capsules."

"Apart from that," Bob told Sherlock. "I don't see any holes in your plan."

Rose's insides twisted. She had hoped, just a little, that Bob would find flaws. Sherlock's plan was outrageous… laughable, even. She had listened, with growing incredulity, to Sherlock outlining the whole thing to the security and electronics expert.

When the doorbell rang, Rose handed the wig back to Felix, and made for the entrance.

Billy, his face flushed from sprinting up the stairs from the underground car park no doubt, greeted her with a "Rosie" and a kiss on the cheek.

"All sorted, Shezza," Billy said, jingling a set of keys. "And I got the blood capsules."

"Forget the blood," Sherlock said, turning from the table where he and Bob were fine-tuning the plan to disable Mycroft Holmes's security system. "We won't be needing them." Ignoring Felix's protest, he went on. "Thank you, Billy. Gentleman…." He addressed the two newest members of his homeless network, recruited at the last minute by Billy. "Rehearsal's over. Your ride's here."

"This way, fellas," Billy said, gesturing toward the door.

Rose began gathering tea cups that were dotted around the living area.

Checking his watch, Sherlock said, "We'll give them a head start. But John should be here shortly. Bob…" Bob straightened up, and shoved his own phone into his back pocket. "I'll see you out by the gates in ten minutes."

"Uh… yeah," Bob replied, seemingly taken aback at his sudden dismissal. "I'll go and see how the girls are getting on," he added, with a quick smile directed at Rose.

"Tell Justine to bring Grace back as soon as she's awake," Rose told him as she left the living area for the kitchen.

"Or not until we leave," she heard Sherlock add.

Rose felt a flush creep across her cheeks as she heard the door click shut after Bob. Did Sherlock want some quiet time alone with her, or just quiet time to mull over his plans? She supposed it was the latter. Over the last few hours, she didn't think Sherlock had taken her growing apprehension into consideration.

As Rose re-entered the living area, Sherlock murmured to himself, "He hasn't changed the PIN in over a year." He was bent once more over the table with the home safe security app open in front of him. "He's unlikely to do it now."

"How did you get access?" Rose asked, joining Sherlock at the table.

"Saw my opportunity when he was getting the system changed from a wired configuration to a wireless setup years ago," he said, closing the pop-up windows on the app. "Logged onto his laptop one Christmas, and added myself as a privileged user. Never had to use it until now. Except for that one time…"

A smile crept across his face and he glanced toward the door. Perhaps it was the realisation that everybody had left and they were now alone that caused the smile to fade from his face. His shoulders drooped just a little.

"What is it?" Rose asked, alarmed at Sherlock's sudden change in demeanour.

"Why don't I remember her?" he said, his voice suddenly thickening as he stared vacantly across the room.

"Remember…?"

"My sister."

"Your—"

"The woman I met," Sherlock began, stepping around Rose and pacing across the floor, "she can't have been more than a year or two older or younger than me. Bit hard to pinpoint exactly which when I was so out of it." Sherlock bowed his head and raked his fingers through his hair as he about-turned. "So if I can't remember her, then how young were we both when she… when she left our family?"

"Perhaps there was a good reason for giving her up."

"But why her?" Sherlock said stopping in his tracks, finally meeting Rose's gaze. "If she was around my age, why keep one child and give up the other?"

Rose was relieved Sherlock was finally voicing what had obviously concerned him the night before, when he had bottled up everything. He'd told her about the woman who claimed to be his sister, the people she had impersonated, her role in the Culverton Smith case, the attack on John and the possible family secret his brother was keeping from him.

And then he'd gone silent. She could actually see the shift—he began withdrawing into himself. Shutting down. She had tried to prompt him to speak his thoughts out loud, but he gently suggested she go to bed, while he went outside for a smoke.

Rose had sat up in bed, her heart pounding, every muscle rigid underneath the sheets, until Grace awoke for her last feed of the evening. When she returned to their bedroom after settling the infant, she found Sherlock emerging from the ensuite bathroom, clad in his pyjamas, his hair damp. Relief had flooded through her. He was staying. He hadn't fled into the night.

"I can't think about it anymore tonight," he'd said, climbing into bed.

"You know, you can talk to me about any—"

"I know, Rose."

He'd stretched out an arm and pulled her into him as he spoke.

"Just not tonight," he said, with a heavy exhale.

Rose had slept uneasily. She wasn't sure if Sherlock slept at all. She assumed he'd risen in the early hours and switched off the baby monitor, leaving her to have one final unbroken stretch of sleep while he lay on the single bed in the nursery and soothed Grace back to sleep. Presumably she'd woken at four—that horrid time when it's not quite morning. Rocking her back to sleep would usually take Rose til dawn, and then she'd feel it wasn't worth going back to bed.

Waking with full, leaking breasts at seven, with an empty bed beside her, confirmed all that for her. She found Sherlock lying in the room next door, obviously not sleeping even though his eyes were closed. Grace lay on his chest, and Sherlock was rhythmically patting her back, as the baby squirmed intermittently.

"I can take her now," Rose said softly. "It's morning."

Sherlock silently acquiesced, groggily handing over their baby. He slipped out of the room, leaving Rose to tend to Grace's needs. By the time they made it downstairs, Sherlock was already dressed and in consultation with Bob. It was all stations go from then onwards.

But this was the first time Sherlock had stopped to think—to  _feel_ —all morning.

Rose had no immediate answers for him, but it was good to see him personalising the situation again, instead of proceeding at a manic pace as he had been doing. There was always the danger of him seeking chemicals to aid in his thought processes. Or worse—seek those that would shut down his emotions.

"I can see how frustrating it is," Rose said in response to Sherlock's question. "What about your mum and dad? Do you think they—"

"I want to keep them out of this for now. All I'll get is… is blethering and tears."

He stopped on the rug in front of Rose's tiny sofa, head bowed, kneading his brow with his fingertips.

"Do you want to sit down for a minute?" Rose asked as she moved towards him.

Sherlock gave a tiny shake of his head.

"I have to go," he said. "John will be on his way."

"You said he'd be here at eleven. That's fifteen minutes away."

Rose's heart sank again at the mention of John Watson. She'd overheard Sherlock on the phone to his friend, giving him the address at St George's Fields. She thought today would be the day Sherlock finally told John about his new family, but it wasn't meant to be. Sherlock had asked John to pick him up from the residence of his expert in home security systems, where he had been in consultation—not a complete lie—and anyway, John was only going to drive to the front gate off Albion Street.

Perhaps today wasn't the day for revealing other secret family members.

It surprised Rose when Sherlock did as she asked—sitting down on the sofa after a moment's consideration. She took the seat beside him.

"My mind would be in a whirl, too," she went on. "I can't imagine how it must feel having a long-lost sibling... well, in my case, any sibling at all. And your brother keeping secrets this big from you."

She was babbling. Was she babbling?

"It's not just that," Sherlock said. Rose was relieved he didn't dismiss her inanities. "If she was older than an infant when she left us," he began, "then why can't I remember her?" He turned his head in her direction, and Rose rested a gentle hand on his forearm to encourage him to continue. "Did something happen..." he mused, partly to himself, "something so... traumatic, that I must've buried the memory. Deleted it. I know I started doing that from a young age. Redbeard..."

He trailed off.

Rose had heard the name before. Redbeard.

That's right!—she had soothed Sherlock while he was having a panic attack about having sex in the armchair John Watson used to sit in as a result of their game of Cluedo. He'd been traversing his Mind Palace when Rose instructed him to find pleasant memories. He had uttered that name, his face softening at the time.

"Redbeard?" she asked.

"Redbeard was my dog."

Well, that made sense.

"I'm not sure what happened to him," Sherlock continued. "I've blocked it out. Obviously found it too traumatic. So whatever happened to my sister..."

Again, he drifted off.

Giving his arm a gentle squeeze, Rose said, "These are things you as a child found distressing. As an adult, you're in a better position to cope with the truth."

"Am I."

It wasn't really a question.

"Yes," she said with a light laugh. Leaning into him, Rose added, "Think about all the things that have happened in the last few years, and how you've coped."

Sherlock's mouth eased into a half-smile.

"Not very well, as it turns out."

Rose threaded her fingers through Sherlock's.

"But you haven't buried anything in the recent past, have you? You've been processing things."

Bowing his head again, Sherlock blinked a couple of times. Was he remembering the worst? Did that include the murder of Charles Augustus Magnussen, Rose wondered. Her stomach clenched at the thought.

After Mary's death, didn't Sherlock confide his involvement in the assassination of key underworld figures abroad to Bob one night? Justine had told her that.

"You've talked about the things that've upset you," she said, stroking her thumb across the back of his hand. "I know it's hard, but you've been confronting difficult memories and putting words to your feelings."

"Have I."

"And whatever you find out tonight, we can talk about it." Rose drew in a steady breath. "As you're processing it. You don't have to understand every aspect of it all by yourself. I'm here... and... and Bob and Justine. If you don't want to talk to me. If you think I'll... get upset. And if you don't want to talk to someone you know, I can recommend a professional therapist. They're really-"

"I'd rather give my money to you," Sherlock said, with a trace of humour in his voice.

"Be careful what you say next."

"You as a therapist, Rose."

Sherlock placed his hand over Rose's, leant in and pressed a small kiss to her lips.

"But I have to go," he said, straightening up.

Rose stood when Sherlock did. As he strode towards the front entranceway, she could see him shrugging off the last vestiges of doubt. When he grabbed his Belstaff from the hook by the door, Rose's stomach somersaulted. Whenever he donned that coat in particular, it meant he was leaving as Sherlock Holmes.

Rose forced a smile onto her face when Sherlock glanced in her direction.

"I'll be back tonight," he said, walking slowly towards her as he straightened out his collar.

Rose gave him a tiny nod.

"I'll be here," she replied weakly.

Sherlock gently pulled Rose into his embrace.

"Thank you," he murmured in her ear, before pressing a soft kiss to her cheek.

"Everything will be okay," Rose whispered back.

"I know."

 


	107. Oh, Have You Had Sex?

 

Sherlock's posture remained stiff and upright in the passenger seat. He tried to prop his arm up onto the window, but that did little to help him relax. As they merged onto the M1, John began tapping the steering wheel, having given up on quizzing Sherlock after receiving the detective-genius's monosyllabic answers.

Sherlock had already decided, halfway through watching Mycroft wetting himself, that he wouldn't stay in Cambridgeshire to interrogate his brother. If he knew Mycroft Holmes—and he did, very well—then the arrogant ponce would need til bedtime to mull over the evening's events, warming his brandy snifter in the palm of his hand. This was the way the minor government official plotted the fate of whole nations. Sherlock's older sibling would be reflecting on more than just his lost movie night. After such contemplation and a restless sleep, Mycroft would front up to 221B the next morning...

_just a little bit desperate._

And only then would Sherlock receive his answers.

"And right 'ere," he heard Bob say to John.

Evidently the pair had been chit-chatting for the bulk of the journey while Sherlock hid in his Mind Palace, and now they were almost at St George's Fields.

After John had stopped the car around the corner from the security gates and Bob had alighted, Sherlock opened his own passenger door.

"Not going back to Baker Street?" John asked.

"No, I need to walk," Sherlock told him. "And think." With one foot out of the vehicle, he turned to John and added, "I'll see you in the morning." He gave his friend a half-smile, which he hoped would speak volumes on his behalf.

Sherlock thanked Bob for his assistance and told him he was going for a walk around the block first. There was a fleeting look of concern on his employee's face. He knew Bob would be monitoring the fob security system, checking when the Consulting Detective returned to the estate.

Searching his pockets for a trusty packet of cigarettes as he walked along, Sherlock came up empty-handed. He stopped in his tracks, head bowed. Double back to Crispins, or continue on to the Frederick Close entrance?

A familiar warmth and then a shiver ran through him. His heartbeat became muted when he recognised the cause. He needed something. Desperately. And he'd had a rush of adrenalin at the thought of acquiring and then using this substance.

But he pushed those thoughts away—reluctantly—shoving them to the far recesses of his Mind Palace.

_There are other means..._

Sherlock drew on, increasing his pace, a renewed sense of purpose motivating him.

When he reached the security gate, he fumbled in his pockets for his fob card. Swiping it against the security pad, he knew full well Bob would be watching the admin console and waiting for Sherlock's point of entry to light up. No need to send out the search party.

The hair on Sherlock's skin began to rise. A sudden rush of dopamine. That's what he needed. It wouldn't last, though. But it was a start.

He wended his way through the gardens and let himself into Rose's flat on automatic pilot. It wasn't until he stood hovering over her sleeping form in the darkened bedroom that he truly joined the here and now—

—at about the same time Rose switched on the bedside lamp.

Wordlessly, and blinking against the sudden illumination herself, Rose scanned Sherlock from head to toe.

"What's wrong?" she finally said. Arching her brows in alarm, she hastily added, "What happened?"

He supposed the sight of him was slightly upsetting to her. Well, he was still dressed in his coat, not having shed it at the front door like he usually did.

Prompted by such a thought, Sherlock eased out of his Belstaff.

"He didn't deny it," he said, his voice marred with the exhaustion he suddenly felt in every limb. He lightly threw the coat onto the chair by the wardrobe. Turning from her, he slipped off his suit jacket as well.

"What did he say?" Rose asked as Sherlock plopped the jacket on top of the coat.

But she was out of bed at once, rounding him until she stood in front of him. Sherlock bowed his head, as if in concentration while he unbuttoned a shirt sleeve cuff.

"I have a sister," he said, unbuttoning the second cuff. "She's out from wherever he's had her incarcerated. And he's terrified of that prospect."

"She's been incarcerated? Since when? Did he say why?"

Sherlock heaved a sigh, his stomach in knots. He lifted his gaze to address Rose.

"That's a conversation we've yet to have. His admission is implied in the words he didn't speak. But I..." He turned from her and unfastened the top button of his shirt.  _I can't think about this anymore tonight._  Sinking onto the bed, he said out loud, "I'm sorry I woke you."

"I was barely asleep," Rose said, moving towards him. "I've only just patted Grace back to sleep for the third time. She's really restless tonight."

A quick glance at the clock on the bedside table told Sherlock it was 10:49pm. Grace was usually settled by ten and wouldn't wake again until three or four. What could've caused her to wake repeatedly after her last feed of the evening?

"Go back to sleep," Sherlock gently urged Rose. He only needed to glance at her to see how exhausted she was. "I don't think I'll sleep at all," he told her. "I'll move to the nursery if she wakes again."

He bowed his head again, dragging a hand through his curls. He was making a concerted effort to keep his emotions at bay—he knew that.

"How about I put the kettle on?" Rose asked gently, entering his personal space.

When Sherlock tilted his face towards hers, Rose ran her fingers through his fringe. A warmth drizzled through him. She desperately wanted stay awake to keep him company, even though her eyelids were heavy.

"A cup of tea, then?" she added. There was still an affectionate glisten in her eyes, causing Sherlock's heart to twinge. How did he even deserve her?

Rose made to leave, but Sherlock's fingers encircled her wrist.

"No," he rasped.

Puzzled, she turned back to him. He released his grip on her, but not without first detecting an accelerated pulse rate.

Desire and passion, love and loss pierced his heart in turn. Sherlock assumed his eyes implored hers, for Rose's gaze softened. She stooped, cupped his face in her hands, and pressed a gentle kiss to his lips. Need and longing coiled inside, radiating outward. He reached for her, tugging her down towards him. When their mouths met again, Sherlock came alive. As Rose wound her legs around him, straddling him, he pressed her hard against his pelvis. He felt her shiver. Hunger rose inside him as she deepened their kiss.

Not too fast, he thought. He wanted to stretch out the night, to prolong the time they had together. Distance his thoughts.

Sherlock trailed his fingers under the back of Rose's nightie. He felt her gasp against his lips. Finally, she drew back and began unbuttoning his shirt. Her eyes were darkened pools, her fingers impatient. His own hands traversed her bare skin, trailing and outlining before he gently caressed the soft curve of her breast. As his thumb lightly brushed across her nipple, a contented sigh escaped Rose. She dragged his mouth back to hers, taking possession once more.

He knew together their needs would grow and intensify with every passing moment. This was what he wanted. What he needed right now.

Sherlock eased back, the taste of Rose still on his tongue. Slow or fast? He couldn't decide. Lifting the bottom edge of her nightie, he drew it over her head and discarded it. Gathering her up in his arms, Sherlock lifted Rose, pivoting them both until he could lower her back onto the bed. Standing above her, he unfastened the last button Rose had missed. He slipped off his shirt then bent over her, catching the edge of her lacy knickers deftly between his fingertips.

Sliding off her underwear, he could feel his own arousal straining against his trousers. And of course she knew this. Rose was suddenly in front of him, kneeling on the bed and unfastening his fly. He lightly batted her hand away, even though he wanted to be touched by her with every fibre of his being. Self-control. That's what he needed right now, but even his heart drummed impatiently.

Fixing his gaze on her, Sherlock joined her on the bed. Rose's cheeks were already flushed, her tousled hair spilling onto the pillow on either side. He kissed her again, slowly, until he could feel her trembling beneath him. His mouth left hers to trail over her jaw, while his hands caressed and explored. He listened to her sighs of pleasure, both maddening and powerfully arousing. When her fingers curled into his hair as he navigated his way along her smooth curves, he had to fight back his own desire once more.

Rose moaned her approval as Sherlock's tongue flicked and teased. Her skin warmed beneath his touch. He revelled in the taste of her. And her scent! Coconut. His old mantra. Apple-pear-coconut. Rose.

Sherlock was transported to a hundred other encounters, back when their world was familiar and predictable.

As her hand kneaded his shoulder in small, desperate motions, Sherlock knew she was on the precipice.

"Sherlock," she gasped, pulling at him, almost writhing away from his touch—a sure sign she wanted him to join her. She didn't want to reach her destination alone.

Sherlock slid upwards, lying by Rose's side. He tilted his hips, shoving his trousers down, but Rose was already upon him.

"Christ!"

He no longer fought to free himself. Rose aided him in that task. Her lips teased him, until tiny pinpoints of pleasure lit up all over his skin. Her hands were soft, yet demanding, her confident strokes tormenting him.

"Chr-ist," he said again, with much less conviction than before. His trousers and boxers were still bunched up about his hips when Rose took him into her mouth. He stopped breathing when the last of the air in his lungs was expelled on a sigh of ecstasy.

His hands dived into her hair, urging her on. Pleasure shot through him as his control slipped. He could lose himself to her, or he could take her with him. He needed it all.

As blood hammered through his body, Sherlock gave over to the pain of impending loss and pulled at Rose's shoulders. He didn't have to wait long. She moved above him, and as he grasped her hips, she pulled him into her, eliciting a deep moan from Sherlock.

Their pulses raced, a raw energy driving them both as they moved as one. Sherlock's mind emptied of all but this exquisite pleasure. He pressed Rose closer, craving more, before finally rolling them. The need to assume control came from somewhere in the back of his Mind Palace. Rose coming undone tugged at his centre. The thrill of every sensation filled him. When she came, hard and fast, gasping his name, Sherlock buried his face in Rose's hair. He let himself go, an explosion of heat finally releasing him.

Sherlock briefly collapsed onto Rose, all energy levels depleted. Rose lightly held him to her, but before she could say anything, Sherlock rolled from her and stood up.

"Why the hell," he began, grabbing at his trousers and shoving them downwards along with his boxers. "Every fucking time..." he muttered. Stepping out of the clothing he added, "Can I just for once... get fully undressed. For Christ's sake."

In the silence that ensued, Sherlock stood with his back to Rose, his head bowed, a hand lightly resting on his hip, clothes jumbled at his feet. His chest heaved as he drew in necessary oxygen. Behind him, he heard Rose rearrange the bedding. The lamp clicked off. He stood in complete darkness now, the air thickening around him.

_Finally naked. Satisfied now, you fucking moron?_

His shoulders drooped and he briefly closed his eyes. Sherlock turned and climbed back onto the bed.

"Rose," he said, his voice becoming ragged. "Sorry... I..."

"I know, Sherlock," she replied, her sympathetic tone floating through the blackness.

Sherlock pulled her towards him, moulding his body around hers.

"Sorry," he said again. His larynx had thickened, his mouth rapidly drying up.

"It's okay," Rose whispered, her breath a light flutter on his neck. Her fingers twined themselves through his hair and soothed him.

"No, I..." But he couldn't speak the words. There was an ache in his heart which expanded, completely filling his chest cavity.

He didn't undress fast enough! Couldn't coordinate making love to his partner! He took it out on her! He didn't know anything! About  _anything_! He was ignorant and stupid! Moron! His whole life was a lie! Betrayed by those closest to him. Secrets kept... words never spoken. How had he never seen this?

Burying his face in the crook of Rose's neck, Sherlock shuddered out a strangled sob. He clung to her, his lifeline.

He didn't…  _know_.

Couldn't…

 _remember_.

Rose's whispers may have quieted him—reminded him that someone else was present—but his body still betrayed him in judders and  _stupid, weak_  tears. She pressed her lips to his temple, smoothed and massaged his nape. She let him cry. Silently. She encouraged this... this moment of vulnerability.

With one final sniff, Sherlock brought it all to a halt.

 _This_.

Whatever  _this_  was.

"You don't have to process this alone," Rose was saying. "Whatever he has to tell you—"

"I know."

"I'll be here—"

Rose's platitudes were cut off by the baby monitor bursting into life. A sense of calm drifted over Sherlock at the sound of his daughter's voice, even though unpleasant thoughts still danced through his head.

"I'll go," Rose said, rising. "Just… just  _stay here_. I'll be right back."

Sherlock rolled to his back and stared up at the darkened ceiling. Before she left, Rose clicked off the monitor and removed her dressing gown from the hook behind the door. With the bedroom door opening, he heard the almost muted cries of his daughter.

But now the air was still and his duel personalities were at war. Sherlock Holmes,  _Consulting Detective_. One who should immediately shut off his emotions so he could get to the bottom of this case.

Yes. This  _case_.

 _His_  case.

The sister he couldn't remember.

Or…

Sherlock.

 _Dad_.

His baby daughter— _Grace_ —was uncharacteristically waking repeatedly after her last feed. He was perfectly attuned to her. Only he could interpret her cries accurately. He really should attend to her needs.

Sherlock had no idea how long he debated his next actions before he decisively rose from the bed, clicking on the bedside lamp. After pulling up in front of the bureau, he opened the top drawer and drew out his pyjamas.

Yes, he had to help Rose. Grace was probably still fussing.

Was she?

As he slipped on his pyjama bottoms, Sherlock tilted his head, straining to listen for her protests through the brick wall.

At that moment, the bedroom door re-opened.

"I gave her a sneaky feed," Rose said. "Probably shouldn't have… but who knows?"

She slipped the robe from her shoulders as Sherlock shook out his t-shirt.

"I'll… um…" he said. Lie in the nursery? Wait for her to wake again? Soothe her with his magic touch?

"Ah… no," Rose said, waving a hand at him as she crossed the room towards the bed, completely nude again. "We'll have none of that. Off with the pyjamas." She climbed into bed, a half-smile forming on her lips. "We were lying together, naked. We hardly ever get to do that. Come on."

Sherlock felt emboldened by the notion. And why not? Rose was clearly moving on from his little  _emotional breakdown_. And he had forgotten about his other role: as a loving partner.

Rose switched off the lamp again, leaving Sherlock to undress in the dark. When he joined Rose in bed, she was facing away from him. He curled his body around her soft, warm curves. He felt Rose sigh against him.

"I guess she was starving," she murmured. "Why didn't I figure that out sooner? Or maybe she just wanted soothing. Perhaps I'm just a dummy for her. I clearly don't know anything."

Sherlock nuzzled into her neck, inhaling her shampoo and receiving several hits of dopamine for the effort.

"You know a lot, as it turns out," he replied in his deep baritone.

Rose sighed contentedly once more.

Sherlock inhaled deeply, filling his heart as well as his lungs.

"I love you," he said, his voice crackling a little. "Just thought I'd remind you of that… in case I forget to say it from time to time… and for those times I behave… appallingly.

He heard Rose let out a shaky breath. Dammit! Did he just…

"I love you, too," she said, her voice a bit tight.

Yes, he did. He'd made her cry.

But Rose threaded her fingers through Sherlock's, and he gave her hand a gentle squeeze.

"I'll come with you," she said.

"What?"

"Tomorrow," Rose added. "When you speak to Mycroft."

Sherlock's heart lifted a little.

"But, that's…" That's what? He wasn't sure.  _Could_  she come with him?

"For support," Rose went on. "Or as an impartial third-party. What do you think?"

Sherlock allowed a chuckle to escape.

"You as an impartial third-party? Are you sure you won't have  _my_  best interests at heart?"

Rose laughed lightly, then shifted so she could face him. Sherlock could see her outline in the darkness.

"Or I could hide in the bedroom," she whispered, shuffling closer. "Just so you know I'm there for you afterwards."

Sherlock silently ruminated on Rose's suggestion. Wasn't this the perfect opportunity to come clean about everything? Mycroft tells Sherlock about a secret family member. Sherlock tells Mycroft about  _two_  secret family members. Would they be even?

But… Sherlock didn't want to categorise Rose and Grace with a potentially psychotic family member who'd been incarcerated for years—one who'd escaped from captivity, assumed not one but three different identities and who had scared the bejesus out of his best friend by shooting him with a tranquiliser gun. How did they even compare?

"Probably not the best occasion for bringing you into the family," Sherlock said finally. "And do you even want to be…" He trailed off.  _Be a part of_ his _family?_  How much would his brother interfere? And what did they do to oust his sister?

"You can't choose your family," Rose said. She sounded like she swallowed her final word, and a silence stretched before them.

 _Stupid, stupid!_  thought Sherlock. Rose had her own family difficulties. He really shouldn't sound so flippant with the dynamics of his own.

"We have our own family," Sherlock said in a low voice, bringing his forehead to touch Rose's. "Right here."

When Rose's breath shuddered on the way out, Sherlock pressed a kiss to her lips.

"Thank you for offering to come with me," he said. "But John will most likely be there. He wants to see how this plays out, too. And he'll keep me from inflicting bodily harm on my brother."

"That's good," Rose said with a sigh.

"And I'll come back here as soon as we've finished. I'll tell you every last detail."

"Good," Rose replied, a sleepy edge to her voice.

They rearranged themselves so Rose lay on Sherlock's chest, with his arm curling around her.

He listened to her steady breathing for a time. It was hypnotic. Sleep threatened to pull him under, and he welcomed it.

When Rose's light touch roused him from a heavy slumber, Sherlock realised he'd been asleep for what seemed like hours.

And then he remembered.

They were naked.

They'd drifted apart at some stage, but Rose was snuggling into him again, and she seemed to be making every effort to wake him, too. A nudge here and there, a lingering kiss on his neck, her legs twining his.

With a deep-throated hum of approval, he let her know that he, too, was awake and up for anything.

This time, they luxuriated in the taste and feel of one another. Desire and longing stretched into a tender indulgence. And by the end, Sherlock's orgasm didn't leave him feeling fragile and vulnerable. It was deep and languorous, like the most potent of opioids.

Rose wrapped herself around him, snuggled into the crook of his neck and sighed.

Sherlock cleared his throat. There was one thing that niggled at him.

"Rose," he said in a half-whisper, his thumb lightly skimming Rose's arm.

"Mmm."

"We didn't… we forgot… we forgot about the condoms."

Rose hummed in sleepy acknowledgement.

Both times they'd forgotten. They'd had sex twice now without the use of…

Oh, fuck it. What did it matter? Rose didn't seem to mind either. It would or wouldn't happen. Pregnancy. What were the chances? They already had a child together. What difference did two make? He was a dad anyway. And a damn good one at that.

With more nonsensical thoughts flitting through his mind, Sherlock drifted off once more.

* * *

"Sherlock!"

He stirred. The bedroom was bathed in a half-light. Daylight.

"Grace!"

Was it morning already?

"I'll get her," he mumbled.

He felt the bed shift, heard more alarming exclamations from Rose, and then the sound of the door clicking shut.

Wait.

What?

He waited. And listened.

He was just going to wait for the second cry before getting up. Make sure Grace really put her heart and soul into it.

But, no… Sherlock didn't remember hearing the first cry, let alone a second. So why did Rose get up in such a hurry?

Sherlock sat up and shot a glance in the direction of the baby monitor. The steady stream of lights and the rough static indicated it was on. But where was the sound of a baby crying and a mother trying to soothe her?

Clearly something was amiss.

Sherlock shot out of bed, stooped to pick up the pyjama bottoms he'd discarded in the night, and hurriedly stepped into them. He'd just reached the door when it opened. Rose's expression wasn't what he expected to see. Her eyes were bright, her mouth curving into a smile.

"She's still asleep," she said, her voice barely containing her excitement.

Sherlock furrowed his brow. This didn't compute.

"Wha—?"

"She's still asleep! I can't believe it!"

"Then why did you wake up?"

"Because," Rose said, gesturing toward the landing, "I don't know… the sun woke me. But… God!" She tightened her hold on her dressing gown. "I'm leaking!" Turning towards the door, and leaving a bewildered Sherlock, she added, "I'm just going to express. Wait up here!"

The air seemed to buzz in her wake. Sherlock glanced at the clock on the bedside table. 7:02am.

Oh.

That was what all the fuss was about. Grace didn't wake at three or four or five. It was after seven and she was still asleep. Rose's breasts were engorged. She had to express milk. Sherlock's brain was slowly catching up. He bowed his head and vigorously rubbed his scalp.

Now, what was he going to do?

Stay put. Listen out for the monitor. Keep out of Rose's way because she didn't like him seeing her "hooked up" to that contraption. Okay. He could do that. Sherlock absentmindedly scratched his bare torso in the vicinity of his surgical scar. What was he going to do today, anyway?

And then it hit him like a John Watson on a slow day.

Mycroft! Their sister!

Explanations. Excuses. A past life he knew nothing about.

Sherlock's breath caught and he dragged a hand down his face. Jesus fucking Christ. Thank you, brother mine.

Sherlock stared at the clock and calculated.

No doubt Mycroft would've risen before dawn. To keep up the pretence of being in complete control of the entire universe, he would've bid his cook to prepare a hearty breakfast. It was Sunday, after all. The Lord of the Manor, dressed only to his waistcoat, would eat his sausages, bacon, hash browns and baked beans at a leisurely pace while he read the Sunday papers and skimmed additional reports from around the British Empire. The sun never set on Mycroft Holmes.

Sherlock still had time. Mycroft wouldn't leave Cambridgeshire for another hour at least.

Grabbing the monitor, Sherlock entered the bathroom. With the volume turned up to maximum, and the shower stall door ajar, Sherlock showered quickly. He shaved efficiently and methodically, then dressed with an outward calm he knew was a sham.

After he drew on his jacket, he regarded himself in Rose's full-length mirror. He adjusted his shirt cuffs and smoothed the lapels of his jacket. Grace woke at that moment, a single cough through the monitor by way of a greeting.

Sherlock's chest expanded. Let's do this then, he thought, turning for the door.

__


	108. One Word, Sherlock

Rose stared at her phone screen for a moment longer, realisation not quite kicking in. The call had ended and not a word had been spoken on the other end, except for the initial 'hello'.

A fierce heat spread across her cheeks. Embarrassment? Humiliation? What was this feeling exactly, she thought. For a dizzy moment, she wondered if switching to an analytical mode would somehow protect her.  _Am I becoming more like Sherlock?_

Rejection!

That was it.

And humiliation. Let's just put that one in there as well.

Her heart grew heavy and Rose inhaled deeply. Looking down at the sleeping infant in her arms, her eyes began to mist over.

"I'm sorry," she whispered to Grace. "It's not your fault."

Of course it wasn't Grace's fault her mother was a former prostitute, but the innocent child was going to be punished for it.

Rose's chest tightened and there was an unbearable pressure on her sinuses.

_Oh, fuck me. Don't cry!_

But she choked out a sob anyway. She'd told herself she wouldn't get upset, no matter what happened, but here she was. Blame the new mum hormones. She'd finally worked up the courage to—

The jangling of keys in the front door brought her sudden outpouring of emotions to an abrupt halt. She hastily dabbed at her eyes and nose as Justine made a sweeping entrance.

"He'd forget his own head, that sodding idiot. D'you know what he— What's wrong, love?"

Rose should've expected that Justine would return early from seeing Bob off to Tesco. Trust her to let her nanny/security detail catch her in an unguarded moment. Wiping at her eyes again, Rose shuddered out a breath in an effort to calm herself.

"Is it Sherlock?" Justine asked, immediately taking a seat on the coffee table in front of Rose.

Rose shook her head and sniffed once more. She felt so stupid—like such a child.

Indicating her phone with a nod, she managed to say, "My dad." And then her eyes welled with tears once more.

Justine leant forward and lightly pressed a hand to Rose's knee.

"Is he—?"

Rose gave an almost imperceptible shake of her head. God no. She couldn't lose both parents. Not in that way… well technically, she had already lost them both.

"I rang him… he… he hung up on me," Rose said, haltingly. In her arms, Grace stirred.

Justine clucked her tongue in sympathy, then reached out.

"Here," she said. "Let me take her upstairs. If you want a good cry—"

"I'm fine," Rose said, rising from the sofa, babe in arms. "I just…"

She didn't know what to feel, or what her next actions were, but she handed Grace to Justine anyway.

"He'll come 'round," Justine said. "Some people need time."

Rose nodded in agreement. She rearranged her clothing as Justine took Grace away.

"Put the kettle on, love," Justine called down from the stairs.

Rose heaved a sigh and made for the kitchen. She hoped Justine was right. This was the first time Rose had reached out to her dad since she'd left Edinburgh. But Sherlock's troubles with his family had prompted her to reflect on her own family difficulties. She knew it was better to get these things sorted as soon as possible, rather than let them fester for years.

Grace had a maternal grandfather, so Rose was adamant that her daughter and her dad would have some kind of familial relationship, even if her own relationship with her dad was strained. She was hoping she'd have a chance to rebuild it. And the first step was always the hardest; she knew that.

Whatever difficulties Sherlock had with his own parents, and therefore Grace's paternal grandparents, Rose was keen to explore and resolve. But she thought she ought to get her own relationship sorted first before she started prodding and poking Sherlock about his.

Poor Grace, Rose thought. Barely a minute old and already embroiled in family drama.

But, Sherlock…

Rose's heart went out to him. She'd never seen him so upset before. She had pieced it together. She was sure he not only felt betrayed by his brother, who'd kept the knowledge of a sibling from him, but he felt terrified that his own mind was capable of locking away such a memory as well.

When he'd left that morning, he pressed a kiss to Rose's temple while she was feeding Grace.

"Thank you for last night," he said, his voice thickening.

"Sherlock, you don't need to thank me. I'll always be here for you."

"I know," he said, with a wry smile. Leaning forward, he kissed her again. "I love you," he whispered, before ducking his head and kissing his daughter on the top of her head. "And I love you." Returning his gaze to Rose, he added, "I'll be back soon."

Rose wished she insisted on going with him. God only knows how the conversation with his brother was progressing this morning.

When Justine returned downstairs, over a cup of tea Rose explained what had happened with her phone call to her dad. His termination of the phone call before it had barely begun had upset her.

Justine told Rose her own troubles reconciling with her daughter who had been raised by nannies while she and Bob carried out their secret life around Europe. The teenage years were particularly difficult, but it had all worked out in the end. Nowadays they do get to spend time with their grandson. This prompted Rose to apologise to Justine for Sherlock interrupting their weekend away. The Wilsons had barely left London when their employer called Bob back to help him with the plan to scare his brother.

"I think I want to go back to Edinburgh," Rose told Justine, her voice firm and her mind made up.  _Fix things in person._

When Bob burst through the door half a second later, Justine cried, "Mind your manners! Fancy coming in with muck half hanging off—"

"Did you not hear about it?" Bob said, in a half panic. "It were on the news!"

At the expression on Bob's face, Rose's heart squeezed. She slowly rose from the sofa.

"What were?" asked Justine.

"Baker Street," he said, his eyes fixed on the darkened television screen.

Justine had snatched up the remote control and was pointing it at the telly. White noise sounded in Rose's head at Bob's mention of Baker Street.

"You don't just..." Justine said, admonishing Bob with every press of the remote control. "...come in here saying... half sentences..."

"An explosion," he was trying to say over Justine.

But their half-conversation blurred into the background as Rose's gaze was fixed on the screen and the flickering channels due to Justine's attempts to find a news source.

"... _years ago_ ," the reporter was saying, " _when a gas explosion wiped out an entire..._ "

"But that was—" began Justine.

"They're just comparing it to the one across the street from before," Bob argued. "But that's not it..."

When the story changed to news of the new Canadian Prime Minister, Justine clicked the telly off with a huff.

"Missed it," she said.

Rose's mind couldn't fully grasp what was going on, except for the thoughts that were now circling round her head: an explosion in Baker Street, and no news of Sherlock.

The air in the flat was suddenly stifling and Rose couldn't focus on what was going on around her. She was dimly aware of Justine bustling Bob out the door with orders to go to Baker Street himself.

Justine approached Rose, her expression softening.

"Love, I'll be next door," she said, giving Rose's hands a light squeeze, "listening in on the police network. We've got a…" She waved her hand vaguely in the direction of her flat. "…a bit of software. Why don't you..." Justine gestured toward the now darkened TV. "Find another news channel."

Rose nodded absentmindedly as Justine left.

And listen out for the baby, Rose thought. Don't forget that.

Of course, she couldn't go running off to Baker Street to check out the explosion herself or invoke dubious software to decrypt communications over the police network. Somebody had to mind the baby! Her thoughts echoed as if she were standing at one end of a very long tunnel.

Sinking down onto the sofa, Rose eyed her phone. Did anybody think to ring him? She plucked up the handset and swiftly navigated to Sherlock's contact details. When she received his voice message straight away, Rose ended the call. No point leaving a message.  _Ring me if you're still alive!_  Her mouth had dried up anyway.

With her movements on auto-pilot, Rose clicked on the television and cycled through the channels until she found another news source.

". _.. been a major incident on Baker Street, Westminster. All emergency services are currently on site. Baker Street and part of Park Road have been closed. Members of the public are asked to avoid the area._ "

Rose's eyes were fixed to the screen as a reporter 'on the scene' spoke from in front of the police barriers. Behind him, the building was barely visible with the emergency vehicles crowding the street. From what Rose could see of it, though, the building looked intact.

"…police evacuated twenty homes," the reporter said, "and… uh, looks like they've sealed off the north end of Baker Street and a section of Park Road. Lots of police surrounding the building and… ah… a London Ambulance Service spokesman said they had sent two crews to the scene. Initial reports say three people are in a critical condition…"

_Oh, God!_

Rose's eyes widened, her mouth agape as the voice droned on.

"… uh, yes, Margaret," the reporter said, addressing the anchor back in the studio, "the home is the residence of Sherlock Holmes, the net detective. As we know, four years ago, he made headlines after his apparent suicide…"

At that moment, Grace's cries sounded through the monitor. Rose dropped the remote control onto the coffee table with a loud clatter as the studio took up the story.

"… and along with Doctor John Watson, they…"

Oh, give it a rest! Rose thought, swiftly leaving the living area.  _They're always rehashing those same tired old sensationalist stories about Sherlock and John_.

Mounting the stairs two at a time, Rose was torn. It was hard not to feel frustrated with her daughter who would wake at the most inopportune moments.  _I'm trying to hear news about your daddy!_

Grace needed a nappy change, which Rose did by bringing down supplies to the living room. She changed the infant on the sofa, with one eye on the TV screen.

"But where did the ambulance take them?" Rose asked to the room at large. "Which hospital? Oh… there we go. Sorry, Gracie. Up you come." She lifted Grace to her shoulder, then stood, rocking gently from side to side as images of Sherlock wearing  _that stupid hat_  were displayed on the screen along with a summary of every headline he'd ever made.

Roses insides twisted when images of Janine Hawkins flickered by.

"… oh, for God's sake," she muttered.  _He's not dead! Stop with the obituary-style reporting!_

_He's…_

_not…_

_dead._

But Rose's chest kept tightening with every passing moment.

"And it looks like we're being moved on," the reporter said, with images of him being jostled sideways filling the screen. The camera jerked a little, and he added, "Yes, we're being shut down. Whatever that means—"

_Good. Piss off!_

A hand went over the camera, and then the broadcast crossed to the studio.

Rose reached down and pressed mute on the remote control when she could see that the news had clearly moved on to another story.

Over her shoulder, Grace still squirmed and hiccupped.

"I'm sorry," Rose whispered.  _I'm too stressed, and you can sense it._

_So, calm the fuck down, Rose!_

She stared at the images on the screen. They meant nothing to her.

When her front door opened, Rose's heart leapt into her throat.

"Security Services have taken over," Justine said, striding in.

Quelling her disappointment that Justine wasn't Sherlock, Rose said, "That explains it." She indicated the silent television. "They've stopped the live coverage. What does that mean? Do you know which hospital they've taken them to? Are they all right?"

Justine shook her head.

"The regular comms on this have been muted by the Foreign Office. Probably because of Mycroft Holmes's involvement. I wouldn't be surprised if they've slapped a D-Notice on it."

"But what does that all mean? Is it a good thing?" Rose asked, barely suppressing the panic rising in her throat.

"Possibly, love." Nodding to Grace who was still obviously awake, Justine asked, "But what's madam doing up again?"

It was Rose's turn to shake her head. She passed the baby back to Justine. A feeling of helplessness rippled through her and her gaze was redirected to the TV screen, even though nothing on it indicated more information about the Baker Street explosion.

Eventually, Justine broke the silence with, "Do you think she's had enough of a feed?"

They spent the next couple of hours tending to Grace's needs, with Justine phoning Bob halfway through. She wasn't able to get through to him, which just increased Rose's anxiety levels.

"I'll go back and check the comms," Justine said, once she had Grace settled upstairs and in her cot again.

Rose wasn't sure what she actually achieved when Grace was asleep and Justine had returned to her flat next door. Lunch, eaten. Dishes? Done. Washing? Folded.

By the time Justine returned to Rose's residence with Bob, Rose was once again feeding Grace in the living room.

"She won't understand that," Justine was saying as the pair strode into the living area from the entrance.

"Understand what?" Rose asked.

"He wants to tell you the explosion weren't real," Justine said, shooting a look of disdain towards Bob. "Lots of noise and smoke and fire, but no real impact."

"It were meant to look like a DX-707," Bob said, his eyes sparkling a little. Rose was initially thrown by his appearance. Bob was wearing a suit. Ignoring Justine's tut, he continued. "… a patience grenade, probably to scare them, but the incendiary device were no more than a—"

"So what does that mean?" Rose asked. She had no interest in the finer details of the explosion. Justine was almost correct in that respect. "Are they all right? Is Sherlock—"

"We think they are, love," Justine said, once more taking a seat on the coffee table in front of Rose. "The word is: they're in a critical condition." When Rose furrowed her brow, Justine leant forward and lowered her voice. "When they try to put the word out about such a thing, it means they're covering up the truth. Do you understand?"

The cogs in Rose's brain slowly clicked into gear. But this was stupid. Why all the game playing?

"They'd be in hiding," Justine pressed on, a smile tugging at her lips. "Working out what to do next." The glisten in her eyes told Rose that Justine was full of admiration for Sherlock and whatever his plans were, when all Rose could feel was resentment.

She dropped her gaze to Grace, who was half-sleeping, half-suckling. Grace wasn't settling. She needed her dad, but he was hiding out in the city somewhere after somebody exploded a fake-bomb in his flat to scare him. Confusion flitted through Rose's mind. How could she ask him to be a dad again when he had to duck and weave around his own life-threatening drama?

Her eyes stung, and when she blinked, a single tear charted a determined path down her cheek. She brushed it aside.

"Oh… love," Justine cooed, reaching for Rose. "I'm sure he's all right."

"I… just… feel… so useless."

The tears fell freely now. There was nothing Rose could do to help Sherlock, and she was rubbish as a mother.

"You're doing all you can right here," Justine said warmly. Behind her, Bob shuffled uneasily.

"And I can't even do that," Rose croaked.

"She's happy," Justine said, reaching out and cupping Grace's tiny head. She smoothed a thumb over the soft downy hair. "She's content."

"She's using me as a dummy! There's no milk left."

"Oh, Rose, love," Justine said. "I know what you need. Here, hand her over."

Justine strongly suggested Rose go for a walk with Bob while she tended to Grace's needs.

"She won't smell the milk on me, so there'll be none of that, hey?" Justine said, directing her words to the sleeping infant in her arms.

Reluctantly, Rose acquiesced. At the door, she drew her coat around her and ran her fingers through her hair. At that point, she couldn't care less about her ratty hair, nor her tear-stained face. She donned sunglasses and slipped her feet into winter boots. So what? She looked like a homeless person. Rose didn't care. She needed a walk, Justine said!

As they left St George's Fields, Rose asked Bob why he was wearing a suit. Puffing out his chest a little, he explained to Rose how he had infiltrated 221B, posing as an MI6 Improvised Explosive Device senior officer. He showed one of his multiple IDs that he'd used once upon a time when he actually did work for the Secret Intelligence Service abroad. When he was able to explain that the bomb wasn't actually a DX-707, the MI5 so-called experts who were combing through the flat were all ears.

It wasn't a coincidence that Bob and Rose's walk took them to Baker Street. In contrast to the news report earlier, there were only a couple of police cars in the street now. An officer was posted outside the door of 221, but it seemed there was no more interest in the flat otherwise.

"So, you were thinking about heading back to Edinburgh?" Bob asked, as he and Rose took up a vantage point across the road. Evidently Justine had informed Bob at some stage of Rose's throwaway remark earlier. After Rose nodded, he added, "Well, we'll only be too happy to accompany you, me and the old girl."

A warmth drizzled through Rose. As they headed back in the direction of home, she explained to Bob that she felt unsettled in London. It didn't feel like home to her, and she really loved the house Sherlock had bought for them in Edinburgh.

"With its own garden," she added.

She couldn't imagine Grace playing in the communal garden in St George's Fields. It didn't feel as safe as their own private backyard could be. And she like the mother's group she'd joined in Edinburgh when she was pregnant, more than the one she met up with late in her pregnancy in London. There was her university course to think of eventually, and her friends from there. And, of course, her dad. What she didn't voice to Bob, though, was her feelings about how Sherlock existed around them. In Edinburgh, he'd be there, mind, body and soul, even if it was for only a week at a time. Here in London, he could say he was going out for Chinese takeaway, then not return for three days, with no word to Rose!

She loved that he was still passionate about his "work". Perhaps she was just tired and feeling vulnerable right now. No, she scolded herself.  _I need to feel in control of my life again._

Once back in her flat, Justine told them she'd ordered a takeaway for dinner, and requested that Bob pop out again in half an hour to pick it up.

Rose couldn't believe how calm Justine and Bob were over dinner. Justine ate one-handed, while she rocked Grace. Every morsel Rose swallowed felt like it could catch in her throat. She supposed this was an easy assignment for the Wilsons, compared to life on the run in Poland. Of course the food tasted great, and a fussy baby was a walk in the park. But to Rose, the minutes ticked by in agony with no word from Sherlock bloody Holmes.

Justine bid Rose retire just after nine, when Grace went down for what her nanny assumed would be her final feed of the evening. Rose wasn't so confident, but she kept her doubts to herself. Justine had been incredibly supportive today.

Armed with an old article that had always guaranteed to send her to sleep— _The Psychology of Taxidermy_ —Rose settled down for the night. She'd barely made it through the first page when Grace awoke. Rose spent the next half hour rocking and soothing the baby, reciting an internal mantra about not needing sleep. Who needed sleep? Sleep was over-rated. She was sure Sherlock had said that to her once upon a time.

Abandoning the article in favour of said sleep, Rose clicked off her bedside lamp and closed her eyes. Sleep took hold almost immediately, sending her plummeting to the depths of suspended consciousness, from where she was rudely plucked one and a half hours later.

_No_ , Rose groaned, staring at the monitor, hoping the hiccup that had woken her had been a figment of her imagination. To sleep for such a short interval seemed cruel. Her limbs were heavy, her head swam and her eyelids drooped. Rose sat up in bed, watching the steady lights and waiting for Grace to cry again just so she could witness the lights flickering herself.

Instead, she heard, "There you go—all's right with the world, Miss Sulford-Holmes," in Sherlock's soothing baritone.

Instantly awake, Rose flung off the covers and hurled herself from the bed. Upon opening the nursery door, she found Sherlock stooped over the change table, buttoning up Grace's sleepsuit, the room aglow from the lamp on the dresser. Chest heaving, Rose stopped, frozen in the doorway.

"Ah," Sherlock said, glancing in her direction and offering her a broad smile. "Here's Mummy." To Grace he said, "Looks like Daddy forgot to turn off the monitor." Lifting his daughter into his arms, he tutted and murmured, "There's always something." Rose folded her arms across her chest. Turning to her, Sherlock said, "Sorry about that. Now, where would you like to feed her?"

Rose challenged him with an icy glare. How dare he act so casually! It was only the presence of Grace that kept Rose from yelling at him.

"You're not injured then… or… dead?" she said, struggling to keep her voice at a baby-soothing level.

"Er…" Sherlock said, creases appearing in his brow as he approached her. "No." With a tilt of his head, he asked, "Should I be?"

Rose's blood began to boil.

"Sherlock. There was an explosion. In your flat."

"Oh," he responded, his expression immediately becoming neutral as he crossed Rose's path by the doorway. "You heard about that."

"Of course I … did," Rose said, swallowing her curse word. She faced Sherlock on the landing. "It was on the news!"

"The news?" he repeated, creases of doubt appearing in his brow.

"Yes! All of the news channels! And there were fire engines and police and God only knows who else."

"Really? Sounds like a bit of an overreaction."

Sherlock turned from a stunned Rose and began descending the stairs.

"Where are you going?" Rose asked.

"I thought you might like a cup of tea," Sherlock called back. "Sounds like you could do with one."

Rose paused on the top of the staircase, head bowed and eyes closed as she drew in a steadying breath.

_We exist in different worlds_ , she thought, exhaling slowly.  _Why doesn't that surprise me?_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So many unanswered questions about that explosion in 221B with Sherlock and John launching themselves through the window and landing without any apparent injury. Not my favourite episode at all, I have to say, but it is what it is :D


	109. I'm Not a Civilian

Sherlock filled the kettle and clicked it on. Checking the freezer, he confirmed there were two bottles' worth of expressed milk. Holding his baby daughter over his shoulder, he intermittently patted her as she snuggled into crook of his neck. Her tiny breath against his skin soothed him. He felt, rather than heard, Rose at the entrance to the kitchen.

After retrieving two tea cups from the overhead cabinet, he turned to face her. She was leaning against the door frame, her arms folded in front of her.

"You know, you can go back to bed," he began, "and I can feed her if—"

He paused after taking in Rose's expression. Her face was awash with... what was that emotion?

Oh.

"You're still upset with me," he finished.

Rose didn't answer straight away. She blinked several times, as if to keep tears at bay.

"I didn't know if you were dead... and…" Rose shrugged before shaking her head. Desperately trying to contain her emotions; he could see that now. Her eyes began glistening and she dropped her gaze causing a lump to form in Sherlock's throat. The penny dropped. Idiot!

"I'm… sorry," he said, leaving the kitchen counter and crossing the floor. Stopping in front of Rose, he added, "I'm a monumental…" He mouthed the word  _dickhead_ , as he half-heartedly covered up one of Grace's ears.

As the beginnings of a smile played on Rose's lips, he felt a light tug on his heartstrings.

"I should've realised the world is full of people who take a peculiar interest in my activities," he said. "It's not as if I've never conducted wayward experiments before and—"

"Your windows blew out."

"And… yes, but—"

"They had to put out a fire, and there were bomb disposal people running about."

Rose had told him this before, upstairs, and Sherlock had been flippant then. In an effort to keep the mood light, he quipped, "Damn enthusiasts."

"And they evacuated twenty homes along your street."

"Clearly alarmists and busybodies."

Sherlock was thankful Rose's remarks were accompanied by the faint smile that graced her lips.

"And worst of all," she said, her eyes studying his, "you came home and didn't say hello."

Sherlock's heart swelled. This, he could do; at last, an oversight he could immediately remedy.

"I… I wanted to surprise you by giving you an extra long sleep. Forgot about the baby monitor. Sorry."

Closing the gap between them, he braved another smile.

"But… hello, Rose," he said, his voice deepening. He ducked his head, meeting Rose in a tender kiss that showed a lot of promise, before they were interrupted by the staccato cough of a neglected infant nestled between them.

After they eased out of their kiss, Rose chuckled lightly and reached out to rub Grace's back.

"How's she been?" Sherlock asked.

"She's your daughter."

"Demanding that much attention, huh?"

Holding out her arms, Rose replied, "I'll take her now. I'll feed her while you make the tea."

While Sherlock allowed several minutes for the tea to steep, he leant against the counter, his head bowed, deep in thought.

It had been action stations—hurried decision making between himself and Mycroft, with John providing sensible alternatives when the conversation became heated. Sherlock decided to park his emotions, not allowing any reflection on the past to cloud his thought processes.

The way forward was based on two theories: that their sister Eurus had escaped from Sherrinford and was currently toying with them, or that a confederate of the late, great Consulting Criminal had assumed multiple identities, including that of their estranged sister, and was exacting Moriarty's revenge by toying with them. One of the theories would be confirmed by a visit to Sherrinford.

He hadn't stopped to think and feel throughout the day. If he had, would he have realised Rose may possibly have heard about the explosion and may be worried about him?

There was too much going on. How often was he supposed to stop and think about his wider world? Should he set an alarm on his phone? A reminder to be a loving, thoughtful partner and father?

Sherlock returned his attention to the task at hand—tea. How to be the best of himself in all his many and varied roles was not going to be solved tonight.

By the time he joined Rose in the living area with their beverages, she was watching the flickering images on the telly with the sound turned down, while Grace lay asleep in her arms.

"It's strange how they haven't mentioned the explosion again," she said, in a voice barely above a whisper. "I always thought conspiracy nutters were just that: nutters. But after this…"

"Mmm, yes," Sherlock responded, taking a seat on the sofa beside Rose. He kept his voice low as well. "You can thank my brother's people for this latest media blackout. By morning the story will have changed to a minor gas explosion."

With a sigh, Rose flicked off the telly and turned to Sherlock.

"So… you have a lot to tell me," she said.

Indeed, he did.

Sherlock told Rose everything Mycroft had outlined that morning. It didn't surprise Sherlock how upset Rose became on behalf of his sister. Incarcerated at the age of five! Rose was suitably horrified.

But Sherlock interrupted the beginnings of her lecture on rehabilitation versus punishment with a weary, "I know, Rose."

She gave him a resigned smile. He knew a multitude of thoughts were racing through her mind, but she had the good grace to hold off vocalising them all for the time being. He knew he'd have to let her have her say, eventually.

Upon seeing his daughter stirring, Sherlock said, "Let me take Grace up. Then I have one more thing to tell you."

Although Rose furrowed her brow as she gave up her daughter, she replied, "I've got something to discuss with you, too."

"Edinburgh?" he asked.

"How—?"

"Bob told me. It's fine, Rose. Back in a minute."

A quick phone call to Bob just before he entered St George's Fields earlier that night yielded snippets of information, such as Rose's desire to return to Edinburgh, but Bob didn't tell Sherlock how upset Rose had been. Bob was more interested in telling Sherlock that it wasn't a real DX-707, something Mycroft had already confirmed due to the limited amount of damage done to the flat. Sherlock had avoided phoning Rose as well, because it was so late and he hadn't wanted to wake her.

Sherlock took his time settling Grace. He kept her in his arms, rocking her in the dimly-lit nursery, committing her baby-lotioned scent to his somatosensory system. Dopamine was drip-fed into his central nervous system. He needed to store it… just in case.

Sherlock's heart ached with the burden of the information his brother had imparted to him. He'd have to take the bad with the good. He couldn't feel what he did for his baby daughter without other feelings vying for emotional bandwidth as well.

He kept his head bowed, intermittently brushing his lips over Grace's soft, downy hair. Warmth flooded through him.

How could his parents have let anyone take their daughter away? A surge of protectiveness shot through him. He would never let anyone do the same to Grace.

_How bad did it get?_ he thought, addressing his absent parents.  _She was five, for Christ's sake. How_ _inexplicable and unmanageable_ _was_ _her behaviour_ _for you to let Uncle Rudy take her away?_

"That will never happen to you," he murmured to his daughter, gently rocking her in place.

He shared Rose's disgust. At the time Mycroft had told him, though, Sherlock had strived to quell that emotion in an effort to retrieve further information.

"Everything okay?" Rose whispered from the doorway.

Sherlock snapped his head up. Reflexively, he gave a simple nod to Rose, then turned for the cot. Behind him, Rose pulled the door shut a little and left him alone with his baby daughter. He glanced at his watch. He'd been in the nursery for almost an hour!

After placing Grace down in her cot and rearranging the bedding over her, Sherlock slowly closed the door behind him. Downstairs was in complete darkness, and the light spilling underneath her bedroom door told Sherlock that Rose had closed up for the night and was waiting for him inside.

With a heavy heart, he entered the room. Rose was already under the covers, lying on her side facing him.

"Sorry," she said through heavy-lidded eyes, "I'm not going to last much longer. "Can we lie down and chat?"

Sherlock gave her a wan smile as he approached her. It was late, and he was sorry to have woken Rose and kept her up when she quite clearly needed sleep.

Sinking down onto the bed, he said, "Rose, I can't stay."

"I thought so. Your phone keeps beeping." Rose gestured to the table on Sherlock's side of the bed. "I brought it up for you."

Ignoring the phone for now, Sherlock told her, "I have to travel to Sherrinford."

"How far away is that?"

"It's in the Irish Sea, northwest of Malin Head, but not as far north as Scotland. I could be gone for a while. But we need to find out if Eurus is still under lock and key. This is important. Mycroft, John and I will be going."

Rose nodded, then smoothed a hand over the bedsheets.

"Just lie with me a minute," she said. "I still want to talk to you about Edinburgh."

She waited until Sherlock settled himself by her side.

"I'm not breaking up with you," she began, reaching for his hand. He threaded his fingers through hers.

"I know."

"It's just that... it was always going to happen, eventually, wasn't it? You brought me to London knowing I'd go back, didn't you?"

In truth, Sherlock hadn't given the distant future too much thought. He tended to exist from day to day and week to week. He thought their situation was quite manageable, until recent events served to unhinge him.

"I know it's for the best," he said. "And quite frankly, I don't think London is the best place for you to be right now."

Rose emitted a slow and steady breath.

"I think we'll go fairly soon, then," she said.

Sherlock nodded. He was confident Rose and Grace would be safe with Bob and Justine accompanying them.

"I don't know how long I'll be," he said. "But I'll join you as soon as I can. We have to train Mycroft in the finer points of how to be dropped out of a Sea King helicopter by winch." A smile played on his lips as he spoke. The image of the brains behind MI5 and MI6, swinging from a hovering helicopter over rough seas flitted through his mind. "A refresher course for John and me, but my brother..."

He watched as tears once more pooled in Rose's eyes. His heart began to grow heavy.

"I know how important this is to you," she said, a slight tremor in her voice. "I just wish I could help you in some way. Or help your sister. I'm sure I can find someone in my industry—other mental health prof—"

"Rose, it's fine. We just have to see if she's there first. Everything else will follow once we know."

When Rose shuddered out a sigh, Sherlock reached for her.

"And we'll work out a plan for ourselves, hmm? Me visiting you in Edinburgh, and you coming back to London on occasion?"

"Will your flat be okay? I couldn't see any damage from the outside."

"It'll be fine. A few blackened possessions and furnishings. Nothing that can't be replaced. And Mrs Hudson..." Sherlock paused, an idea forming in his mind. His landlady. The poor woman had been in such a state!

"Actually," he said carefully, "there is something you could do for me... before you leave London."

"Clean up your flat?"

"No! Definitely not. And I told Mrs Hudson not to as well. It's just that I didn't get to spend much time reassuring her that everything will be fine. So, perhaps you can pay her a visit? Make sure she's not worrying about us. Let her know there's no structural damage and I'll fix it all up when we return. Could you do that?"

Rose nodded in agreement.

"I like Mrs Hudson," she said. "She's lovely. And she cares about you so much."

Like a second mother, Sherlock thought, outwardly gifting Rose with a wry smile. And he was sure his landlady liked Rose, too. Well, she had repeatedly let Rose into the flat, despite her drugged-out lodger's demand in opposition.

Sherlock straightened up, poised to leave when another thought suddenly struck him. His mind swiftly calculated the ramifications of such a decision.

"Why don't you tell her?" he said.

"Tell her?" Rose asked, her brow furrowed.

"About us. You, me, Grace." When Rose wordlessly opened and closed her mouth, Sherlock added, "The wholesome version, that is. You were my therapist—she thinks that already. You stole your way into my heart..."

Rose laughed lightly, and replied, "The other way around, I think!"

Leaning over Rose, Sherlock drew in a steadying breath. The love and devotion he felt for her ran through him with an intensity that threatened to overwhelm him. He had to let her know how he felt. And this time, with everything around him in disarray, a simple  _I love you_  would not suffice. Rose and Grace were the only aspect of his life he felt secure about.

His heart full, Sherlock locked eyes with Rose's and told her, "Every moment I've ever spent with you has culminated in the best experience of my life."

As Rose gazed up at him, her eyes glistening, he added, "In fact, if I die any time soon, I can go to my grave know—"

Rose stifled his words by placing two fingers against his lips and shaking her head.

"I get it," she said, her voice fraying around the edges. "You don't have to say any more."

But the tears he was almost expecting of Rose did not fall. With a gentle tug, she pulled him towards her and met his lips in a long and lingering kiss. The intensity of her emotions, he knew, displayed a hidden strength. She was neither fragile nor vulnerable. She would be okay living in Edinburgh without him for a time. And God help anyone who crossed her or her daughter.

Sherlock's phone once more beeped and vibrated with a message.

Pushing lightly against his chest, Rose said, "You should go."

* * *

With a nod, Rose silently signalled her thanks to Bob for escorting her to Baker Street. She knew he would set up a vantage point somewhere in the area. She felt just a bit guilty that she would be warm and dry in Mrs Hudson's kitchen, sharing a cup of tea, while he was stood out in the street with nothing but the gentle patter of rain for company.

Rose once again checked on Grace, peering through the plastic of the buggy's rain cover. Just as she did so, she witnessed flailing limbs, before the unmistakeable sound of protests emanated through the protective cover.

Rose quickly pressed the buzzer for 221A, before reaching down and pulling at the velcro that held the cover in place. In the shelter of the stoop, Rose lifted her baby from the pram. She soothed her over her shoulder, gently patting her back and issuing soft shushes. Grace was due for a feed, and if the landlady wasn't in, Rose could probably feed her in Speedy's café. She hoped the place wasn't too busy. Monday morning. Wouldn't everybody be at work by now?

Rose heard the jiggle of a lock and then the door to 221 opened, revealing the landlady wearing an apron.

"Oh!" Mrs Hudson exclaimed. "You've had the baby!" The older woman cooed with delight, having eyes only for the infant in Rose's arms. "Come in, come in," Mrs Hudson gestured, her expression bright with excitement.

When Rose stepped back and pulled the pram towards her, Mrs Hudson enthusiastically offered to hold the baby—exclaiming, "Another baby girl!"—while Rose brought the pram inside. It was a tight squeeze with Rose apologising for Mrs Hudson's floor, now that the wet buggy stood dripping all over the entranceway.

"Oh, don't worry about that, dear," Mrs Hudson said. "I've got soot floating down from upstairs. No matter how many times I sweep down here, another layer settles on it, quick smart. I don't know when that young man is going to get everything sorted. Oh, I'm sorry, Rose dear. If you're here to see Sherlock, he's—"

"No, it's fine, Mrs Hudson. I saw him last night. I just came to see if you were all right, and if you need anything. Sherlock will be back soon enough to clean up, he said. Don't worry about that. Why… why don't I put the kettle on?"

Luckily, Mrs Hudson didn't notice Rose's nervous babbling, her attention once more drawn to the infant in her arms.

"Oh, does she feed well?" she asked as they made their way into the kitchen. "She looks really healthy!"

Rose gave the woman a brief summary of Grace's sleeping and feeding habits, making sure to highlight the easier times. Mrs Hudson was delighted to hear that her baby's name was Grace. Settling into a dining chair, Mrs Hudson lay Grace on her lap, cradling Grace's head in her hands.

"Let's have a good look at you," she said, as Rose filled the kettle. "Oh," Mrs Hudson laughed. "Look at that yawn! Just like your dad when he's bored!"

Rose froze at the kitchen sink. What did she say?

Mrs Hudson was still chuckling down at Grace.

"So clever!" she cooed. "Oh, and those eyes. Taking everything in!" To Grace she said, "You know what's going on, don't you? Processing everything, just like Sherlock!"

A heat spread across Rose's cheeks. No, she hadn't misheard.

"Mrs Hudson," she began.

The landlady looked up.

"Did… do you know… I mean… I never said…" Rose's throat felt tight, and although Sherlock had given her permission to tell Mrs Hudson about their relationship, Rose wasn't quite prepared for this conversation. "About… Sherlock," she continued, her heart beating furiously in her chest.

"Oh, I didn't come down in the last shower, dear. I knew you and Sherlock were mucking about last year. And you still visiting him in your condition when he was acting like a smackhead! You don't live underneath a Consulting Detective without a few observational skills rubbing off on you. I thought you were either a very dedicated therapist, or you were in a relationship with him. Of course, I hoped you were having his baby." She glanced down at Grace. "And look at you! You're so beautiful! Yes, you are! And you look just like your daddy!" Lifting her gaze to Rose, she added, "If you were seeing someone else, I don't know how they felt about you staying the night all those times. But Sherlock didn't say anything about expecting a baby, the great lump. None of my business, I thought... But now that I know, perhaps I should've pulled a gun on him sooner."

Rose gaped a little, her head buzzing. Mrs Hudson knew they were involved last year? And Rose thought they'd kept their liaisons a secret under the guise of therapy sessions. But what's this about a gun?

"A gun?"

"Yes, you know, that day you left all upset, and he was carrying on like a pork chop. I felt so bad for you. You looked like you were about to go into labour!"

Rose smiled ruefully.

"I did go into labour."

"Oh, no!" Mrs Hudson exclaimed. To Grace, she asked, "Did you hear all the shouting? I'll be having a word to your father about that. Fancy subjecting an unborn baby to all that nonsense."

With that announcement, Grace's face contorted into the beginnings of a cry.

"Oh, I should feed her now. She's probably hungry," Rose said, crossing the tiny kitchen.

"No, she knows when someone's criticising her dad," Mrs Hudson said, rising from her seat. "Daddy's girl, this one. You mark my words. She'll have Sherlock wrapped around her little finger one day! I bet he can't put her down, can he?"

Rose managed a tiny smile as she took Grace from Mrs Hudson. His landlady was spot on there.

"He loves her," Rose said, and she felt herself flush. It felt odd talking about Sherlock as a father to anyone other than Bob and Justine. To her friends, "Scott" was just a figment of her imagination. Talking about Sherlock Holmes, in this context, to someone who knew him very well, felt surreal.

"I bet he does," Mrs Hudson remarked, a sparkle in her eyes. "I'm sure he dotes on her. I always knew he'd be a wonderful father. You should've seen how he was with Rosie." Mrs Hudson placed a hand on her chest. "Oh, she's adorable." Indicating the doorway, the landlady added, "Just go through, love. I'll get the tea. Stay as long as you like!"

 


	110. Look What You Did to Her

Rose's heart thrummed in her chest as she pulled the car up by the kerb, two doors down. She tried to keep her anxieties at bay, but they rose up in her throat like bile.

_No_ , she thought, straightening up in the driver's seat.  _I'm going to park in the driveway like I have every bloody right to._

She continued on, scanning the dark street for signs of life, but in this weather, she didn't expect to see anyone out and about but the desperate.

As Rose idled the car in the driveway, the windscreen wipers continued beating a steady rhythm, swiping the smattering of rain drops that bounced off the windows.

She looked up at the house. Nobody seemed to be peeking through the curtains. Rose drew in a steady breath as she unbuckled her seatbelt. She turned to look at Grace who was sound asleep in the baby capsule.

"I'm sorry," Rose whispered to her infant. Grace's sleeps were few and far between, and now Rose was going to wake her by taking her out into the elements.

Rose dimmed the headlights and switched off the ignition. Squeezing awkwardly between the two front seats, she made her way into the backseat of the sedan. She drew her parka's hood over her head, then unfastened Grace's safety straps.

With Grace snuggled against Rose's chest, and her parka wrapped firmly around them both, Rose left the shelter of the vehicle and dashed towards the front porch, puddles of rain splashing against her legs. Grace barely stirred.

"You're a good girl," Rose murmured, slightly out of breath.  _We'll be nice and warm soon. I promise._

_I hope._

Rose pushed the hood from her head, then reached out and pressed the doorbell. She didn't realise she'd been holding her breath until many seconds ticked by.

_Try to relax, for fuck's sake!_

When the door opened, Rose was surprised to see a person she didn't recognise. The middle-aged woman's eyes widened as she took in Rose.

"Oh!" she exclaimed, before stepping back and immediately shutting the door in Rose's face.

Rose felt the sound of the door slamming reverberating in her heart. In her arms, Grace stirred.

_Wait… I do recognise her._

Wasn't she a neighbour of her parents?

_What's she doing here? Moving in with my dad before the dirt has settled on my mother's grave?_

Rose stepped forward and rang the doorbell once more. She wasn't going to be rejected by some interloper!

The door opened a crack.

"'e doesn't want to see ye'," the woman—the  _neighbour_ —said.

"I have his granddaughter here."

The woman's eyes dropped to the bundle in Rose's arms.

"Neither of ye'."

The door was swiftly shut once more. Grace fidgeted again. Her eyes were shut tight, but her mouth twitched and two tiny coughs escaped her. Rose rearranged the swaddle, then drew the parka around them both once more.

_This is ridiculous_ , she thought.  _We're supposed to be adults here_.

She reached out and pressed the buzzer again. There was a longer wait this time, before the door was once more opened just a crack.

"We will ring the police," came the same woman's voice. "This is harrassment."

"I'm his  _daught_ —"

She was talking to a closed door.

Rose huffed out an angry breath. Grace's tiny coughs were extending into longer cries. Rose was torn between allowing Grace to cry out here on the doorstep, so they could potentially hear her from inside, and comforting her daughter by putting her back inside the warm car.

She chose the latter. What kind of mother was she, anyway?

Rose sat in the back again to buckle Grace into her babyseat. She couldn't tell if it was raindrops that ran down her own cheeks or tears. Angry tears.

_How could they!_

_How dare he ignore us!_

They'd only been back in Edinburgh two days before Rose decided to ring her dad again. That time, a woman answered. She told Rose not to call again. Now she knew who the woman was!

_I'm going to try again!_  Rose thought furiously as she backed the car out of the driveway.  _And again and again… though perhaps not on a rainy day like today._

_Grace is a part of this family whether anyone likes it or not!_

* * *

Sherlock and John strode across the concourse and away from the steady thwacks of The Griffin's rotary blades. The Bell 412 model helicopter was a last minute replacement for the Royal Navy's newer Wildcat, ex-army captain John Watson was disappointed to discover. Sherlock, in contrast, had voiced, "Analogue gauges, John? Now this is hands-on flying in all its rawness!"

At the time, Mycroft had rolled his eyes and tutted, proclaiming Sherlock a show off, just because he'd undertaken one week's stint at Shawbury before his time abroad.

Mycroft Holmes was not so critical now. He sat, head bowed, shivering while the winch paramedic gave him a once over. The squadron's rear crewmen and commanding officer went about their business.

"What do you think?" John asked, after sucking in his breath.

"He's still determined," Sherlock replied.

He had to hand it to his brother. Mycroft was adamant that he accompany them to Sherrinford, as only he had the authority over the governor to demand a review of the facility's security protocols. Unfortunately, they could only approach the island fortress by stealth in case security had been compromised, and that meant being winched by helicopter onto an unsuspecting fishing vessel located somewhere in the North Atlantic.

Sherlock exhaled a sigh, his heart heaving in uncharacteristic sibling concern. Mycroft, with his superior IQ, could not command his body to overcome these physical challenges.

Shortly, the squadron leader approached John and Sherlock.

"So, er…" he began, rubbing the back of his neck. "With the swell hitting the reef, you can see why he ended up in the drink." Looking out onto the dark grey coastline, he gestured with a raised hand. "Experienced officers would've used the waves to give themselves height over the—"

"It's fine, Lieutenant," Sherlock said. He could see the squadron's commanding officer struggling to suggest that the covert mission's Chief Executive Officer would not be able to land onto a fishing boat with any degree of accuracy. "What are our alternatives?"

"Well, as you know, we have the survival pack that contains a single life-raft with thermal protection should we ditch into the sea, so I suggest we either use that, or…" When Sherlock raised an eyebrow, the officer stammered, "… or there's a ten-man dingy, and after you and Captain Watson have commandeered the vessel, you can pick him up—"

"Perfect," Sherlock interjected. "Ten-man dingy it is then."

* * *

"It's your young man," Justine said, stopping in the doorway of the kitchen after answering the front door.

Rose turned around having fastened the lid to another bottle of sterilised water. Justine had immediately vacated the kitchen via the door to the living room, leaving Rose some privacy with her visitor.

"Rosemarie!" Adrian said, as he strode towards her, his arms outstretched and a broad grin on his face. "Why'd you not tell us you were coming back?"

Rose allowed herself to be enveloped in Adrian's hug.

"Last minute decision," she said, pulling back after an obligatory three seconds.

After exchanging mild pleasantries, with Rose filling the kettle and turning it on, Ade furrowed his brow.

"So you went to see your old man."

Rose folded her arms in front of her as she leant against the kitchen counter.

"You heard about that."

"It's up and down our street."

_Of course it is_ , she thought, exhaling deeply.

"He didnae want to see ye'," Ade said, and it took Rose a moment to realise he was making a statement, not asking a question. The rejection she felt earlier returned with a vengeance.

"No. Not at the minute," she replied in a small voice, her mind momentarily distracted.

"I know it's mad, but you know what I can do," Ade began. "How about I take the wee one to him?"

"What?"

"Without you, y'know, since you're not gettin' along."

Rose felt her hackles begin to rise.

"No fucking way!" At Adrian's startled look, Rose clenched a fist and drew in a steadying breath. "I mean… I know you're trying, but it's…"

"It wasnae my idea, but your aunt's."

"What?"

"Cause they all had a meeting about it."

"A meeting!"

"Aye. The rest of us took a bit of whizz and smoked dope out the back while they gabbled on."

A quiet horror stole over her heart. Rose couldn't believe the gall of these people.

"D-did they send you here?" she asked Ade.

"Well, I woulda come mesel' t'see ye. But your dad's not changed his mind. So they thought if he saw the wee bairn without ye—"

"I'm not letting that happen! I'm  _her mother_  and  _his daughter_! He doesn't get one without the other!"

Adrian nodded sombrely. Rose's eyes pricked with tears and she angrily sniffed back her emotions.

"Perhaps if you," Adrian began, gesturing toward her, "if you let this happen a couple of times… just so he forms a connection with her."  _Over my dead body_ , Rose thought, her expression hardening. "Then later you can go along, too," Ade finished. "Maybe apologise."

She thought she'd misheard.

"Apologise?" she asked, blinking a couple of times.

"Aye, you know… for… what ye' were. For embarrassing him… shaming yer kin. On account of you being a… a prostitute."

Rose's eyes widened and she gaped a little.

"You are fucking kidding me!" she yelled. "I'm not apologising for who I am or what I was!" Furious tears filled her eyes and her throat constricted. Adrian took a step backwards. Rose's heart thumped so hard she could feel it in her ears. Speaking in a relatively calmer voice, which only indicated her white hot fury, she said, "There was a time I hated myself for the life I chose... for believing that selling my body was the only choice I had. But I've accepted those experiences as making me the person I am today. I've forgiven  _myself_! And I'm… proud of who I am and for the relationships I now have and…" Her voice crackled as her heart filled with warmth upon thinking about Sherlock.  _Sherlock and Grace_. "… and for our child. And I  _won't_  fucking apologise to anyone for that!"

Adrian's mouth opened and closed uselessly as Rose glared at him.

Just then, Justine's sleight frame filled the doorway.

"Everything all right in here?"

"Yes," Rose said. "Adrian was just leaving." She turned her back on the kitchen, crossed her arms in front of her to stare, unseeing, into the back garden through the picture window.

Justine's arms stole around her, while in the background, Rose heard Bob say, "Come on, mate," and a mutter of resigned acquiescence issued from Adrian.

Justine rubbed Rose's arms and said, "A bunch of wankers, the lot of 'em."

Rose choked out a half-sob, half-laugh as Justine continued holding her. But the tears fell all too easily. Rose  _was_  proud of herself, but she knew with a high degree of certainty that most of her life she'd been seeking acknowledgement and approval from her own parents. Her brief, but deeply scarring, stint as a sex worker was partly because she found instant acceptance and continual adoration—as shallow as it was—from anonymous punters. The brief experiences could be captivating and each subsequent encounter potentially alluring.

But now she realised she didn't need it from her relatives.  _Family? What family?_  She had all the love and acceptance she had always craved— _and bloody well deserved_ —right here. She had made her own family and they already filled her heart.

"Her Majesty's awake," Justine whispered. "In the living room in her bassinet. But she's happily staring up the telly. Britain's Most Wanted. Enthralled, just like her dad." As Justine chuckled, a tiny smile grew on Rose's face.

* * *

Sherlock's insides twisted at the idea of existing all alone, trapped in one's own mind. He'd been there himself, once upon a time, albeit only briefly.

He reached out a hand to Eurus.

"Open your eyes," he whispered. "I'm here." As Eurus lifted her head and searched Sherlock's eyes, her own glazed with tears, he added, "You're not lost any more."

Eurus heaved out a sob, and Sherlock shuffled closer, bringing his arms around to embrace her. He felt his sister collapsing inwards, but she clutched his shoulder and drew an arm around his neck, hanging on as if for dear life.

She thought it was too late, and perhaps it was for all the others, Sherlock mused. But what about John? As the scent of charred wood filled his nostrils, and moonlight spilled upon them through the hole in the roof, the distant sound of water gushing into a well from a flat screen TV downstairs put a halt to any notions Sherlock had of gently easing Eurus out of her psychosis. They had to get moving.

"Now," Sherlock went on, and recalling words Rose had spoken to him once, he added, "you… you just… you just went the wrong way last time, that's all. This time, get it right. Tell me how to save my friend." Sherlock could barely keep the urgency out of his voice. Pulling back, he cupped her face in his hands. "Eurus," he said, his eyes imploring hers, "help me save John Watson."

She gazed back at him, her eyes widening as if they were seeing for the first time. Eurus gave an imperceptible nod, so Sherlock straightened up.

"Come on," he beckoned. Stooping a little so he could help Eurus to rise, he said, "Let's do this together, hmm?" He kept his voice as low and calm as he could muster, even though his heart was racing. "Now," he said, "you turned on the water from here. Can you turn it off? Show me how to shut it off."

With painstaking slowness, they descended the stairs one flight to the first floor and entered what Sherlock remembered as his father's study. Eurus remained immovable by the doorway, but Sherlock spied what he needed placed on a blackened blanket in the middle of the floor: a laptop. Beside the laptop was a phone Sherlock immediately recognised as his own.

The computer screen was divided into sections, with the largest portion a live feed from the well.

"John!" Sherlock called. "I'm here… I'm…" Sherlock quickly scanned the screen, found one control labelled "water levels" and immediately set it to zero. "The water," he said.

"Yeah!" John called out. "It's slowing, but it's not stopping."

"That's the best I can do for now, but…" The rest of the screen yielded little useful information, apart from an option labelled Lock/Unlock. "Chains," he murmured.

"What?" yelled John.

"The chains," Sherlock called back, pressing the button at the same time.

"Ugh, yeah, I can… I can free my leg now."

"Good," Sherlock said, straightening up. "At least you can tread water now. You'll be able to hold out for a moment. I'm coming."

He stooped to retrieve his phone. Upon turning it over, Sherlock discovered that a call was in progress. That was how he was managing to talk to John, he saw, from the laptop to the phone and whatever device was located at the well.

"John, I have to end this call now. But I  _will_  find you."

Sherlock quickly pressed the End Call button, just as John voiced his protests. Turning to his sister, Sherlock said, "Eurus, can you take me to the well now?"

Wordlessly, she turned from him and drifted out of the room. Sherlock let some distance grow between them as he rapidly dialled the number of his brother's right hand woman.

"Anthea," he said in a low voice. "Scramble everyone. There's been a change of plans."

Sherlock gave Anthea his location, telling her that he'd last seen Mycroft at Sherrinford. She advised him that the local constabulary would be faster in responding to his coordinates, but Sherlock insisted she contact D.I. Lestrade first, even though Musgrave Hall was "not his area". Perhaps she could think up a reason for contacting him. Sherlock didn't want to deal with idiots right now, and there was the secrecy surrounding their sister and Sherrinford they had to consider. He would leave the finer details in Anthea's capable hands.

As they walked through the grounds of Musgrave Hall, Sherlock struggled to orient himself. He increased his stride so he could now walk alongside Eurus.

"I don't recognise this area," he said, peering through the darkness. "Did you… did you play… over here?"

Eurus nodded, but kept walking, her focus unwavering.

"We searched for days," he said, more to himself than to Eurus, as memory upon memory seeped into his consciousness. "But we didn't find any trace of…"  _Victor_ , Sherlock thought, his breath catching slightly. "My friend," he murmured.

Eurus suddenly stopped in her tracks.

"Friend," she repeated in a half-whisper.

Sherlock was jolted into the here and now.

"Yes," he said, stopping in front of Eurus. "My friend, John Watson. We're going to save him together."

Slowly, Eurus shook her head. Her eyes swam with tears once more.

"My friend," she said with a crackle in her voice.

Sherlock hummed agreeably, as if accepting that John Watson could be her friend too would encourage Eurus to continue walking. She  _had_  flirted with the man in one of her personas, after all. But her face dissolved once more.

"I… never had… a friend," she said, haltingly.

"Yes, but we have John now."

Eurus slowly shook her head once more.

"Don't… take… her... away. She's… my… friend."

Eurus seem to collapse on him, sinking to the ground as she choked out a sob.

Sherlock crouched on his haunches in front of Eurus, who was resting her arms on her knees, head bowed. Take  _her_  away?  _She_? Is that what she said?

"Eurus," he said carefully, thinking another game was imminent. Another corpse. "Your friend. Do you have a friend now?"

Eurus nodded and sniffed.

Looking up, she croaked, "Rose."

A sliver of ice plunged into Sherlock's heart.

"R-rose?" he repeated, attempting to quell the panic rising in his voice. " _Rose_  is your friend?"

Eurus nodded once more and panic now filled Sherlock's every muscle, fuelled by a shot of adrenalin. He resisted the urge to shake the information out of Eurus.

"Where's Rose, Eurus? Where is she? When did you last see her?"

"Lon-don."

"London," Sherlock repeated. "London, when? Today? This week? Last week?"

Sherlock had left Rose in London days ago. Had she made it safely to Edinburgh already? In the time between Sherlock leaving London and arriving in Sherrinford (after all that damned training!) had Eurus visited Rose?

"Baby," Eurus murmured. "When she… when she had… the baby."

Sherlock's eyes widened in fear. His sister had been near his baby daughter!

"Grace," he whispered. "Have you seen... Grace?" He felt ill just asking the question.

"She has… your eyes," Eurus whispered.

_Eyes_.

The words echoed throughout Sherlock's Mind Palace and he slowly stood up as thoughts and faded memories slowly came into focus.

_Your eyes._

…  _she has your eyes…_

…  _said she has your eyes…_ The words now echoed in Rose's own voice. Who said? Who did you say, Rose?

_Lisa…_

_Lisa said Grace has your eyes._

_Lisa's in London visiting her brother._

_I think it's her brother._

_No!_ Rose had admonished him with a laugh.  _She's a mature age psychology student. One of the students I tutor!_ Sherlock never took the time to remember the names of Rose's friends. She'd tutted at him, a slight furrow in her brow, but a faint smile on her lips all the same.

_She always goes to Liverpool… to visit her son._

_Lisa gave me these secondhand clothes._

_She's in London, visiting her brother, she said._

_How was your lunch then?_  Sherlock had asked.  _With Lisa, your psychology student?_ He could hear his own voice asking that question with disinterest in his tone.

Sherlock backed away from Eurus, bile forming in his throat. His head spun.

Lisa was Rose's friend in Edinburgh! Rose had been tutoring her even before Sherlock had reconciled with Rose.

_Oh, God_! he thought, his stomach churning.  _Rose. How long… how often had Eurus visited her?_

"Where are they?" he said, his voice like gravel. "Eurus, where are Rose and Grace?"

"Home," she replied, in a voice barely above a whisper.

Home? Whose home? Which home?

Sherlock brought his phone up, and moved even further away from Eurus, who began quietly sobbing to herself again. He could do nothing to help her now. Because if she… if she… God help her if she had even touched one hair…

He dialled Rose's number, his heart hammering.

"Hello," came a whispered voice. "Sorry! She's just... Oh!"

With that, an infant's wail came through the speaker.

"Rose," Sherlock said, his voice and emotions stretched beyond their limits.

"Hang on."

Sherlock listened to the sounds of a grumpy baby and the soft shushes of a doting mother.  _His family._  They were safe.

Sherlock bowed his head, dropping his phone hand to his side, a sob escaping him. He pinched the bridge of his nose. They were safe. For fuck's sake. Relief poured out of him in long, shuddering waves.

"Sherlock? Sherlock?"

Rose's concerned voice spoke through the phone he held loosely in his hand. Evidently, she'd been speaking to him.

Sherlock sniffed and raised his head to the gun-metal grey sky—cloudy and therefore starless. The moon struggled to peek through. He blinked away his remaining tears and raked a hand down his face.

"Sorry, bad signal out here," he said, in as steady a voice as he could manage. "Are you in Edinburgh, now?"

"Yes," she said. "Sorry about that." Sounding like she was now addressing Grace, Rose added, "Silly mummy forgot to put her phone on silent before you rang. It's Daddy! Oh! Look at you."

Sherlock's heart stuttered at the homely sounds emanating through the phone, while he was standing out in the cold, the remains of murder and mayhem splattered forever on his mind… and on his shoes.

"You know, I think she's trying to suck her thumb," Rose said, whispering as if conspiratorially. "What do you think about a dummy? It might help soothe her back to sleep at night."

Sherlock swallowed the lump in his throat. How he yearned to be there right now!

"Sounds like a vice," he said. "And one that we'll have to eventually wean her off. Could be painful."

"Well, right now, Mummy's a dummy. I know which one I'd prefer. Sorry, I forgot to ask how you were? Have you finished? How's your sister?"

_Of course you'd ask_ , Sherlock thought.  _Because you're a thoughtful and caring human being._

What would Rose think if she knew he had held a gun to the underside of his chin, with the idea of taking his own life a few hours ago? He was all set to leave them. And in his own words, he was prepared to go to his grave knowing he'd go with a full heart. The words Rose prevented him from saying to her the other night.

"Fine," he said, his eyes drifting back to Eurus. "There's a lot to tell you, naturally. But we should be back tomorrow. I'll fill you in then. Any… news… from your end?"

There was a pause, and then Rose said, "I visited my dad."

Her voice sounded flat, and the lack of emotion conveyed a lot more to Sherlock than her words did.

"I'm… sorry to hear that," he said.

He heard a huff of a laugh from Rose.

"I should let you—" he said at the same time that Rose said, "I really should get—"

Rose laughed lightly.

"I love you both," Sherlock said, in a low voice.

"And we love you, too."

Sherlock swiftly ended the call. Was that a new goodbye ritual?

His gaze returned to his sister, who had finally set her own emotions free after thirty-something years of not understanding what they were for. His best friend was trapped in a well. His brother was… missing. Why was Sherlock's heart now buoyant?

"Eurus," he said, crouching in front of her once more. "I've just spoken to Rose." At the sound of Rose's name, Eurus raised her head. "And you know what Rose is like. She's always helping people, isn't she? So, she would be so happy to know we've helped John. So how about we do that? And then we can see her. In her home. Our new home in Edinburgh. I'll take you there."

Eurus slowly nodded.

"Come on," he said. "I'm sure we don't have far to go."

He knew where they were now. On the edge of their property, where the land had once been in dispute between the original owners and their neighbours. He had never played here. He'd always thought the terrain boring and not at all suitable for pirates, let alone their ship.

Several hundred metres later, Eurus came to a halt. The ground gently rose toward a small hill, behind which a rusty water tank loomed in the darkness. Sherlock bet there were pipes from the tank feeding water into the disused well dug into the hill.

"John!" he called, breaking into a light run.

"About bloody time!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you don't mind that I've skipped the bulk of the episode regarding the psychological games Eurus made them play in Sherrinford. I didn't think I could add to any of that. I think Sherlock's emotions bleed through during their ordeal, thanks to Cumberbatch's flawless acting, without me needing to write his internal thoughts. And I really couldn't think of a good reason Lestrade would operate out of his jurisdiction, so I just left it vague. Hopefully, Anthea came up with something :D
> 
> There are still a few more chapters to go, though! Not quite finished yet!


	111. Don't Prolong His Agony

"I said I'd bring her home," Sherlock told John, the consequence of Eurus's actions flitting through his mind. Home to Edinburgh? Is that what he told her? To the home he bought for Rose and Grace? "I can't, can I?"

"Well," John replied. "You gave her what she was looking for—context."

"Is that good?" Sherlock asked, turning to his friend.

"It's not good; it's not bad. It's..." The doctor looked beyond them both, as he searched for the right words. "It is what it is."

This didn't sit easily with Sherlock. He didn't endure this entire day just to have his sister in no better state than when she had started out. Did she really consider Rose her friend? How had their relationship progressed? Did the real Eurus bleed through at any time? Had Rose inadvertently provided counselling for Lisa/Eurus?

And how was he going to tell Rose Lisa was a fraud?

"So, boys," Lestrade said as he strode over. "I guess you'll need a lift back to London?"

"Bit hard to get a cab from here," Sherlock drawled.

"Wouldn't mind getting home and changing into dry clothes, yeah," John added, his teeth almost chattering.

"Just give me a minute," the D.I. said. "Just have to see this mob off, then we can go."

Finally settled into the back of Lestrade's vehicle, Sherlock turned his attention to the view outside the window, although he didn't register anything in a visual sense. He had the back seat to himself, having suggested John take the front passenger seat, so he could have the car's heating directed on him.

Sherlock knew John and Lestrade would want to chat, anyway, so he'd leave them to it.

Along the way, Sherlock took a call from Anthea, and then finally one from Mycroft. John and Lestrade had stopped gabbling. He knew John in particular was straining to hear Sherlock's conversation with his brother, even though he'd only hear Sherlock's words.

"Sir Edwin has flown over an entire contingent," Mycroft told him. "Engineers, security advisors, guards, the lot."

It was just like Mycroft to get on with things. Things he could organise, people he could assemble. He may have stated it was Sir Edwin's doing, but Sherlock knew who really called the shots. And keeping busy in this manner, prevented his older brother from having to stop… and feel.

Sherlock understood completely. And how would he ever go about talking to Mycroft about all that had happened at Sherrinford?

"Yes, well," Sherlock replied, striving to stay on topic, "we don't know who's been compromised."

"From the governor to the laundry staff, most likely."

They both lapsed into an uneasy silence, Sherlock surmised, at Mycroft's mentioning of the governor.

Sherlock cleared his throat.

"So, have you returned to London?" he asked his brother.

"No. Still on Sherrinford. I will be for a few days. Overseeing... everything. You?"

"On my way to London, now. But... I'll be heading north again shortly. Scotland."

The silence told Sherlock that Mycroft was raising an eyebrow. John, in the meantime, had glanced around at Sherlock, slight creases appearing between his brows.

"Yes," Mycroft said eventually. His voice took on a compassionate quality. "I daresay this... this episode... has taken its toll. On us all. Castle Hallyne, I gather?"

Ah, thought Sherlock. His ruse all those months ago had been successful. Mycroft thought Sherlock had been seeking regular stints in the rehabilitation hospital just over the border in Scotland and was in need of a top up.

Time to come clean. It wasn't the easiest conversation to have—admitting to his brother there was one more Holmes family member he didn't know about. But there were other ways and means...

"No," Sherlock said, correcting Mycroft's assumption. "Edinburgh."

He let the silence thicken around them once more.  _Come on, Mycroft. Make a deduction._  But Sherlock's insides twisted when Mycroft Holmes's deduction was preceded by a heavy sigh. The sigh of disdain.

"Rosemarie Sulford?"

"Yes."

His brother went silent again.

Sherlock gave a light cough, then added, "I'll fill you in when you and I return to London."

"There really is no need," Mycroft replied a little too quickly.

"No. There's something you don't know."  _There we go. Laying down breadcrumbs._

"How could there be?"

"You're under the impression I've been travelling to Castle Hallyne on a regular basis."

"At the beginning of the year at least," replied Mycroft. "I take it that's not the case?"

"Quite correct. As I said, I'll fill you in later. Our sister knew and you did not. And Mycroft... we do have to tell our parents about Eurus."

He let his brother digest his words. When he eventually replied, Mycroft's tone had become quite clipped.

"London it is, then. I'll see you at the end of the week."

Without looking at his phone, Sherlock knew his older sibling had ended the call.

John cleared his throat, a sure sign he was reminding the Consulting Detective of his presence and was dying to know what the conversation had been about. No doubt he'd heard Sherlock state he was heading to Edinburgh soon.

Sherlock settled into his seat and tapped his phone to his lips, deep in thought.

He would tell John first, before having a proper conversation with Mycroft, naturally. But not here. It didn't feel right revealing the details of his new family to Lestrade at the same time.

As for his brother, Sherlock had decided that letting him find out for himself was a far better option. At the first inkling that Mycroft's intel was incorrect—that his little brother's regular jaunts north weren't for the purposes of drug addiction counselling—the elder Holmes would've been straight onto his people. ' _Our sister knew and you did not'_  would also be playing on his mind.

But, yes, they would discuss it at the end of the week—a week of Mycroft Holmes getting used to the idea that Sherlock had his own little family. And by the time Sherlock spoke to him about the subject matter, he hoped his elder sibling would be quite subdued.

_Good plan!_

While Sherlock formulated a different plan for enlightening John Watson, Lestrade broke the silence by discussing a new Scotland Yard case with the doctor. As the D.I. imparted the finer details, with John asking obvious questions, Sherlock only half-listened. His mind had drifted back to his sister.

Eurus had targeted Rose in Edinburgh while she and Sherlock were separated. How long had his sister been studying the minutiae of Sherlock's life?

During the journey, Sherlock's phone rang twice.  _Mycroft._  He'd been expecting this. Twenty minutes? His brother was getting slow in his old age. He dutifully rejected the call on both occasions.

_Now's not the time, Brother Mine._

Soon enough they had pulled up outside John's house.

Before alighting, John twisted around and prompted Sherlock, "So… Edinburgh?"

"Yes," Sherlock said, with a nod. "Actually…" He leant forward as he grasped the door handle. To Lestrade, he said, "Do you mind, Greg? I'll just be a moment."

"Not a problem," the D.I. replied. "That's what I'm here for… apparently."

Sherlock left the car and made for the kerb as John also alighted.

"What's this about?" John asked him.

Sherlock drew in a steadying breath. He gazed toward John's house, the living room window aglow by the light of a lamp.

"Babysitting service?" Sherlock asked.

John nodded. "Overnight. Costing me an arm and a leg this week."

"I'll compensate you, of course… or, Mycroft will." Sherlock managed a rueful smile. When John chuckled and rubbed his nape, Sherlock added, "I guess I should thank you for risking life and limb at my expense… again."

John gave a light snort of a laugh and shook his head.

"Yeah… well. You know why I do it."

"But this wasn't just any case. Not a case at all, in fact. This was personal."

John inhaled slowly.

"Yeah, well… even more important that I be there for you then. And… er… I'm sorry about… about your family."

Sherlock gave John a grim smile.

"About my family," he began. "That's not the entirety of it."

John tried to sigh discreetly. Sherlock could almost see him stifling an eye-roll.

"Why doesn't that surprise me," John muttered.

"In fact, I'd liked to come clean about it all," Sherlock said, his heart rate accelerating. "No more lies. No more deception."

John gaped a little.

"Did… did Eurus have something else to tell you?"

"Uh, no," Sherlock said. He attempted to force a smile to his face. Only one side of his mouth complied. "This is something I…" He shook his head. No point giving hints right now when he had no intention of explaining himself until later. He gave a light cough before continuing. "In any case, I'd be very grateful if you… if you and Rosie would accompany me to Edinburgh."

"Me and  _Rosie_?"

"Yes," Sherlock said. "I was going to suggest now… tonight… but that wouldn't be fair on…" He nodded his head towards the house. "So perhaps first thing in the morning? And besides… right now I owe an apology and some sort of explanation to a dear and sorely neglected friend of mine."

John gave a quick nod. He easily caught on this time.

"Molly?"

"Molly."

"Yeah, well… good luck with that."

"So…" Sherlock began, feeling a tiny bit apprehensive. He rocked on the balls of his feet a little. "Edinburgh?"

John lifted his gaze to the heavens, then turned towards the house. Sherlock could almost hear the cogs turning in his head. Ratchetty old things they were, too.

"Why not?" John finally replied with a shake of his head. "And now you've got me curious, dammit. I take it there's no danger involved, since you've invited Rosie along?"

"As little or as much danger as you can get when you accompany me."

"Yeah, that's what I'm afraid of."

Sherlock gave his friend a warm smile.

"She'll be fine. The break will do us all good."

"In that case," John said, "She wakes around six. Please don't call 'round before then."

"Looking forward to it."

* * *

John woke with a jolt. He'd dreamt he was in that damn well again. He'd barely slept, tossing and turning all night. He'd turned up the heater and slept with the electric blanket on, just so he wouldn't feel the cold. But it still wasn't enough. And this morning, ten minutes into the flight, he slowly nodded off and slept for most of the journey.

A gurgle and a coo drew his attention. John straightened up and removed his jacket from where it was bunched up against the window. Across from him, his daughter was commanding the attention of no less than three flight attendants as she sat on Sherlock Holmes's lap.

_God_ , thought John.  _Look at that. I rock up at the check-in, loaded down with baby gear, plus an infant, and I don't get a look in._

_Sherlock Holmes, with his stupid dreamy eyes and… cheekbones… and…_ my daughter _, gets three… count them… three… young…_ _youngish..._ _one of them's a bloke, mind—but still… fawning all over him._

The blondest and prettiest even stroked Sherlock's arm as she stood from her crouched position.  _Lucky git_.

John cleared his throat.

"Oh, Daddy's awake!" Sherlock announced, pivotting Rosie around to face her father.

Rosie blew bubbles of spittle by way of a greeting, her eyes round and bright, arms outstretched.

"Hello, darling," John said, his voice rough from sleep, as he reached for his daughter.

The baby fan club had dispersed now that John held the baby, or so the doctor assumed.

"We've had loads of fun," Sherlock told him, his voice annoyingly chirpy. "We even visited the cockpit."

John furrowed his brow.

"I thought that wasn't allowed in this day and age."

"I'm Sherlock Holmes."

"Well, I don't think Rosie would've appreciated the effort—thanks anyway. She's far too young."

"I didn't say we did it for her." Rising from his seat, Sherlock added, "Just going to the bathroom. Back in a sec. Oh, and John… I think Rosie needs her nappy changed." He wrinkled his nose for emphasis before vacating his seat.

John breathed out a weary sigh.

* * *

"Gonna need a cab with a baby seat," John told Sherlock as they strode toward the airport exit.

"All taken care of," Sherlock replied.

John tried to quell the mounting frustration he felt with his former flatmate's enigmatic and casual air. Why couldn't the smug bastard just tell him what this was all about? A thought flitted through John's mind: something family-related? Perhaps Sherlock was taking him to a retirement home where this mysterious Uncle Rudy was living out his years in retirement. Would Sherlock want to confront the old codger about his role in locking up Eurus Holmes? But why bring Rosie along?

_Old_ _people like babies_ , Mary happily answered him.

But he did say something about the break doing them all good.

"Ah," said Sherlock, a glint in his eye as he looked toward the kerb. "Here's our ride."

John recognised the man who strode toward them—Sherlock's expert in home security systems. The one who resided in London, though.

"Bob," John said amiably. "Good to see you again. You get around a bit, don't you?"

"Could say the same to you!" Bob joked.

As they loaded John's and Rosie's gear into the back of the sedan— _Sherlock didn't have any luggage, what's that about?_ —John asked his friend, "So… care to tell me where we're headed?"

"Not yet, John."

During the journey to  _wherever_ , John tried to engage Bob in conversation, thinking he could surreptitiously find out their destination that way, but the man was as vague and mysterious as his employer... or perhaps John wasn't very good at stealthily interrogating people.

_No, you're not, are you_? Mary volunteered.

John's phone pinged with a text and he drew it out of his jacket pocket.

"It's your brother," John told Sherlock. " _Tell Sherlock to ring me,_ " he read.

Sherlock merely responded by giving John an enigmatic smile before redirecting his gaze through the window.

After a half hour journey through unfamiliar Scottish highways and streets, with Sherlock entertaining Rosie in the back seat, and John and Bob finally finding a common topic in Afghanistan, they pulled up in a quiet, narrow lane.

John regarded the two-storey house that rose up in front of him.

_Good God_ , he thought.  _Definitely_  a retirement home for an ageing British Government know-it-all. Were they really going to meet Uncle Rudy?

"Sherlock," John said uneasily, as he stood by the car door and Sherlock unbuckled Rosie. John hadn't failed to notice the forty-something-year-old woman striding from the house towards them. She was the type who had a kind of hidden strength—steely, just like his wife. John had seen the same in many female medics and nurses—those who could haul a body a few hundred yards if they had to.  _Must be the head matron_ , he thought, frowning.

He was thrown, however, when the woman's face split into a broad grin, directed at him.

"You must be Doctor Watson," she said, striding forwards, her arm outstretched.

" _John_  Watson, yes," John said, hoping to de-emphasise his medical credentials as he enclosed her hand in his.

"Justine Wilson," she replied. "We've heard so mu—"

"Me wife," Bob interjected, rounding the car with John's suitcase and Rosie's nappy bag in hand.

"Oh," John said in genuine surprise.

"Buggerlugs hasn't told him anything," Bob said to Justine, with a nod in Sherlock's direction.

John knitted his brows together as Sherlock straightened up and turned around with Rosie now in his arms.

"Because it's a surprise," Sherlock announced, a smile stretched wide as if he was proud of the idea.

"What... all of us?" Justine asked.

" _All_  of you."

John tilted his head in non-comprehension.

"Sorry... what?" he asked, shifting his gaze between the married couple and Sherlock.

"Not to worry, love," Justine said, reaching out and patting his arm. "Let's get you inside. We've made lunch. Hope you're hungry! Oh, and this is herself! I've heard all about you, little miss!"

Justine stooped and tickled the infant in Sherlock's arms.

Bewildered and now  _very_  uncomfortable, John followed Bob towards the front door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I purposefully didn't write out Sherlock's visit to apologise to Molly. I felt it didn't belong in this story because it wars with my Sherlolly sensibilities, but rest assured, he did visit her that night. If you want a realistic and sensitive version of his visit, I highly recommend thedragonaunt's oneshot on fanfiction. net, "Three Little Words".
> 
> Yes, this is the moment a lot of you have been waiting for! Sherlock telling John! And I'm terrible for making you wait for the actual reveal. And sorry, you didn't actually get to witness Mycroft finding out! Perhaps I'll write it in a flashback or something…


	112. You Were Always the Slow One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Extra long chapter!
> 
> Okay, I was going to skip Myc altogether, but I was feeling really bad about that. I have such a soft spot for him, even though I feel Moftiss wrote some of his actions so OOC in S4. But I'm just a little bit curious as to how he's taking the news. So the first scene in this chapter jumps back in time—during the period Sherlock and John are getting a lift back to London and after Mycroft's phone call to Sherlock, where Sherlock drops hints that big brother isn't as omniscient as he thinks he is.
> 
> It also means there's a bit of a delay before you get to read John's response, but don't worry... I get to that in this chapter, too! Two reactions for the price of one! And some of you wanted every single detail… so it's extra long because of it. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it!

Moonlight played off the water, highlighting the peaks of the gentle rolling waves of dark ink. It still felt like a prison to him. He couldn't escape from where he currently stood. But he welcomed the refreshing sea air as the agents inside the governor's office finished scanning the room for explosives or non-standard surveillance equipment.

Mycroft Holmes would remember the governor, of that he was certain. But not now, not while he had work to do. Whenever he closed his eyes, though... now that was going to be a problem. Best keep them wide open, then!

Turning from the balcony, he re-entered the office via the glass sliding doors. The agents had moved to the surrounding rooms, so he sank into the office chair and ruminated.

Sherlock's words to him were definitely an invitation to pry. His little brother was practically begging him to.  _Let's play deductions!_

He had deduced all he could from Sherlock's inferences, and there wasn't a lot to glean from in the first instance. Resting light fingers on the handle of his Earl Grey, he awaited further information from Anthea.

That Sulford woman who now resided in Edinburgh had garnered little interest from Mycroft Holmes once Sherlock had received a slap on the wrist for that...  _fiasco._ Back to his usual cocky, arrogant self, chasing leads and his own tail alternately, Sherlock Holmes's movements north had been tracked, naturally. But now it was evident that the Scottish intelligence officers Mycroft had contracted thought little of working for a  _sassenach_. Had they been easily fooled by Sherlock's decoy destination, or didn't they care enough to delve deeper?

Rosemarie Sulford lived in Edinburgh and had applied to study for a Masters in Applied Criminology and Forensic Psychology. That little snippet had raised a semi-interested eyebrow at the time it was acquired—shortly after his agents delivered a single red rose to her on New Year's Day. Little brother's last wishes. But that was the extent of Mycroft's intel. If Sherlock was carrying on his life in London, then why would Mycroft Holmes waste any more resources on monitoring… her?

That she was striving for some semblance of a respectable professional career barely registered. But her dalliances in  _that other industry_  featured rather prominently in Mycroft's mind. It was those services his younger brother had initially sought, after all.

_And I drove him to it_ , Mycroft thought with a heavy sigh,  _by putting that Adler woman in his path_. Had she given him the idea that these kinds of personalised services were easily purchased?

Mycroft leant forward and propped his head in his hand. The beginnings of a headache manifested itself. A  _very specific_  kind of headache. He gently kneaded his brow.

The chirrup of his mobile phone brought him out of his musings, but he didn't have the energy to straighten up when he reached for it with his free hand.

"Yes?" he said at once to Anthea.

"Um... Rosemarie Sulford," Anthea began without pre-amble. He'd trained her well. "She moved to London for a couple of months."

"Yes, and?"

"And... she... she gave birth to a..." Mycroft froze. "… a baby girl, on the 12th of September."

He squeezed his eyes shut and didn't release the breath he'd inhaled. His head remained bowed.

_Oh, Sherlock_ , he thought.  _What have you done?_

"And the birth certificate?" he asked resignedly, dragging a finger along his browline again. "Who is named as the father?"

"It's blank, sir. No name."

His eyes snapped open and he ceased rubbing. Sherlock wasn't named as the father? Most interesting. That told him a multitude of facts about this... this woman. Ms Sulford wasn't an opportunist.

Sherlock's voice on the phone over two years ago rang again in his ear:  _I trust you've received the message loud and clear by now that Rose is not accepting your generous offer._

The ten thousand pound cheque. The one he'd offered her—threatened her with—to stay away from his little brother. She never cashed it in either.

"And there's something else, sir," Anthea said, the confidence in her voice returning.

_Twins_? he thought, his insides churning.

"There's a married couple," Anthea went on, and Mycroft blinked rapidly at the unexpected change in topic. He lifted his head from his hand. "An older couple. They took the flat next to Ms Sulford's in London—St George's Fields is where they lived. Security footage around the estate and also the entrances to The Great Portland Hospital, where the child was born, place them in Ms Sulford's company. And we have information from a few months ago documenting their place of residence in Edinburgh. It's the same address as Ms Sulford's."

"Are they her parents?"

"No. Too young. And Liam and the late Sandra Sulford are Ms Sulford's parents."  _That's right._  Mycroft had this information in his notebook. "This couple are Robert and Justine Wilson," Anthea continued.

"An aunt and uncle, then."

"No, sir. I… I don't know where they fit in yet. We haven't obtained bank records. Still working on that. They're originally from Blackpool. But Sherlock is also seen in Robert Wilson's company, entering and exiting St George's Fields.

"So what is your concern, exactly?"

"They look… familiar. And… not in a nice way."

"I'm… sorry?" This wasn't the usual terminology of an intelligence briefing.

"I can't explain it, sir. I've run their images through our  _official_  databases, but I haven't come up with a match. But I  _do_  recognise them."

Mycroft knew why Anthea had stressed 'official'. She was hinting that the  _unofficial_  databases may hold this couple's real identity—the ones only he, Lady Smallwood, and Sir Edwin had access to, and even then, none of the parties had access to each other's. But if Anthea, Mycroft Holmes's right hand, had seen their images at some stage, then that pointed to the secret files codenamed 'Antarctica'. But these days, underlings were no longer permitted to access special files, not since the codename  _Love_ affair.

"Send me everything you've acquired so far," Mycroft said wearily. With regard to his brother, why wasn't anything kept simple? "And are the Wilsons now residing with Ms Sulford in Edinburgh?"

"Yes. At a house in Morningside, initially purchased by a… Scott Williams, but now in Ms Sulford's name."

Mycroft let the beginnings of a smile escape him.  _Scott Williams_. He didn't believe in coincidences and he knew those names only too well.  _William_  Sherlock  _Scott_  Holmes. At least Sherlock had given up on using that ridiculous  _Altamont_  alias.

"Would you like me to gather information on Mr Williams?" Anthea asked.

"No, thank you. Email everything else to my private account. I can access it from here. That will be all."

Mycroft would have to compare the images of the Wilsons with his own files himself to find out who they really were and why they were in Sherlock's life via Rosemarie Sulford. Thoughts of the presence of a female infant flitted through his mind, but he endeavoured to disregard them for now.

First item on the agenda… to ring his brother again.

* * *

Sherlock had held onto the door handle a moment longer, a tiny smile on his face as he looked back at John.

John had seen that smile before. Years ago, now. God! How long ago! Sherlock was just about to show him 221B, and his expression told John he was hoping the doctor would be impressed enough to want to share the flat with him. John could've sworn it was the same uncertain yet hopeful look he just shown him now! What did Sherlock need his approval for?

He followed his friend into the foyer of the house. Justine hovered behind him, holding the door for Bob, John guessed, who had dashed back to retrieve the forgotten baby seat from the car.

"Here we go, Rosie," Sherlock murmured to the baby girl he still held in his arms. "What do you think?"

Sherlock stopped at the bottom of a winding staircase. Bit fancy, John thought. As Rosie pointed to the chandelier and gurgled at it, John followed her gaze.  _Jeez, must've cost someone an arm and a leg, this place._

"Now then," Justine said, striding in with a confident air. "Would you like to wash up first, Doctor Watson?"

"Just  _John_ , please."

"There's a small bathroom down here." She gestured across the entrance to a closed door on the far side. "And you lot can wash your hands as well," she added, looking pointedly at her husband who was depositing the baby seat and John's suitcase by the front door.

"Uh, yeah, think I might, thanks," John said, making his way across the floor. As he did so, he spied a buggy folded up and leaning against the door of the cupboard underneath the staircase. "Ah, forgot to bring one of those," he said, gesturing.

"Oh, feel free to use anything, love," Justine said. "We thought we'd put you in the nursery. There's a spare bed in there, along with the cot. We'll just move madam—"

When Justine abruptly stopped speaking as she gazed past John towards Sherlock, John tilted his head quizzically.

"Do… do you have…" he began, then racked his brain for an appropriate word. Should he say 'baby'? Grandchild? Bit hard to gauge, although Justine didn't look too much older than Mary. "Uh… a… little one?"

"Don't worry, Justine," Sherlock said casually, repositioning Rosie onto his other hip. "I was hoping John would make his own deductions."

Justine threw her hands in the air and shook her head.

"Well, don't look at me! I'm just going to heat up the soup again." With one parting shot to Bob about not leaving the luggage in the entranceway, Justine disappeared through a door to what John presumed was the kitchen.

"What's going on?" a female voice from the top of the staircase called out.

John glanced upwards. A figure came into view—bare feet and pyjama bottoms were visible first, hips that swayed just so, followed by a very tidy midriff underneath a thin, light pink tank top, John shamelessly observed.

Recognition flashed in confusion across John's face where the stairs curved and her identity became all too clear to him. _Rose_? Her gaze was drawn to the bottom of the staircase, her eyes lighting up when she saw Sherlock standing there.

"Sherlock!" Her brow furrowed as she continued descending. "And who have you got…?"

Sherlock the idiot was grinning broadly as he held John's daughter in his arms. John cleared his throat. Rose slowed in her descent, her attention drawn to John standing in the middle of the entranceway.

"John!"

"Hello, Rose!" he said, forcing a smile to his face. "So this is where you've been hiding?" God! He could have kicked himself! What an idiotic thing to say!

But her grin only broadened and she chuckled.

"Sherlock keeps me locked up in a tower," she replied as she continued descending.

"Hardly," Sherlock muttered.

John looked on, his mind adrift.  _So… this is what Sherlock wanted to tell me?_

"Oh, Rosie, you've grown so much!" Rose exclaimed, reaching the last step and bending toward the baby girl. "Do you even remember me? Hello!"

Rose's expression was so full of affection, that John felt a twinge in his heart for Mary. But hang on… when had Rose met his daughter?

"And you," Rose said, her expression changing to one of mock-scolding directed at Sherlock as she lightly placed her hand on his arm.

John turned away, suddenly finding whatever Bob was stowing in the cupboard underneath the stairs far more interesting. He'd already found it difficult to witness Janine Hawkins kissing Sherlock. It had been extremely awkward and uncomfortable.

Thankfully, there were no sounds of lips smacking. Perhaps Rose didn't kiss Sherlock after all? Or maybe her kisses were a bit more tasteful than Janine's neverending pecks. John watched as Bob shoved the cupboard shut and dusted off his hands.

"John," Rose said behind him, "it's been a while."

He twisted around. Rose approached him and held out her arms. He reacted immediately, responding to her hug with his own embrace.

"Yeah, a very long while," John replied, awkwardly patting Rose's back.

When they pulled apart, Rose still lightly grasped his arms.

"I'm so sorry about Mary," she said, her eyes warm and glistening.

"Oh, yeah," John said, his voice hitching a little. He hadn't expected that.

"She was a remarkable woman," Rose went on, "and a wonderful mother."

John tilted his head.

"Mary bumped into Rose at the flat," Sherlock interjected, stepping closer to the pair. "They had coffee one day, apparently. And on another occasion, Mary pulled a gun on her."

"Sherlock!" Rose shot the detective a look while John looked on in mild shock.

"Okay, you lot!" Justine called from the kitchen. "Grub's up!"

"I'd better get dressed," Rose said, turning for the stairs again. "We'll chat soon. I had a bit of a lie in. Didn't get much sleep." She accompanied her last statement with a meaningful look in Sherlock's direction, John couldn't help notice, but his friend's expression remained neutral. Rose mounted the stairs, saying, "Sherlock," without turning around this time.

Sherlock coughed lightly.

"Oh, here. Let me take Rosie," John said. He knew the signals only too well. "I'll get her cleaned up."

With his daughter tucked into one arm, John hastened over to grab the nappy bag Bob had placed near the cupboard under the stairs. Glancing up, he saw Sherlock rounding the curve on the staircase.

_Definitely in a relationship_ , John mused.  _You only obey that kind of one word command if you're in the army or in a relationship. And Sherlock's_ definitely  _in Rose's bad books right now._

"Daddy's clever," he murmured to Rosie. "Your Godfather's not the only one who can make deductions."

He strode towards the bathroom Justine had pointed out earlier. Just as he tentatively opened the door, Justine herself poked her head out from the kitchen.

"Oh, don't change her in there. The loungeroom's much more comfy. And there's a change mat leaning up against the side of the couch." Looking up at the stairwell, she raised her voice and said, "Don't wake Rose! She's having a lie in." Turning back to the kitchen once more, she muttered, "Talkin' to meself. Don't know why I bother."

Making for the living room with his daughter and her gear, John thought,  _Lovely family-oriented place. Why the hell is Sherlock Holmes here?_

* * *

Sherlock crossed the landing and entered the bedroom to find Rose waiting for him with her arms folded across her chest. But her face lit up once more at the sight of him and she met him halfway across the floor. He gathered her up in his arms and held her fast.

Apple and pear caressed his senses. She kept using it for him. The shampoo. And if he dropped his head a fraction? There it was. Coconut. Her scent drizzled through him, settling over him like a sedative.

"Tell me when you're ready," she said softly as her fingers played soothingly over his nape. "I'll be ready to listen anytime."

Sherlock furrowed his brow.

"What do you mean?" he asked, easing back.

She studied his expression for a moment, an affectionate smile gracing her lips.

"I know something's worrying you."

"How do you know that?"

"Because your smile hasn't met your eyes the two times you've looked at me." She reached up and lightly brushed the corner of one eye with her thumb. "The little creases you get there are missing." Locking eyes with his once more, Rose added, "You're upset about something and you don't want to tell me just yet. And I know it's not that you're worried about turning up here with John without telling me beforehand. I'm perfectly fine with that, by the way. Whatever's happened, I'll be ready to listen any time you want to talk. Okay?"

Sherlock responded with an almost imperceptible nod. He drew Rose in once more. Didn't want her to see his face. His eyes stung, but his heart swelled with pride. She knew him so well. Of course she did. Why wouldn't she?

Sherlock didn't want to delve into it right now, not with people downstairs. He would unravel, as he had done earlier in the week. He hadn't wanted Rose to see him like that, but afterwards, it had felt oddly cathartic. But the information he had hastily shoved into a room of his Mind Palace was far too disturbing and it had to be contained for now. The memories weren't buried quite as deep as they had been before, but there would be a time and a place for coming undone.

And then there was that other thing… His heart sank even further at the thought of it. He had to let Rose know about her friend Lisa.

Sherlock gently pulled away, turning from her. Easing out of his jacket, he said, "I'm getting changed as well."

Sherlock went about his usual routine of hanging up his garments, swapping Sherlock Holmes's attire for Scott Williams's. He exchanged a half-smile with Rose as she also dressed. Now he felt quite self-conscious of the fact that his smiles weren't meeting his eyes. It was his heart's fault. Heavy and lethargic, it failed to lift the other muscles in his body.

"What did John say about Grace?" Rose asked, now fully dressed in a t-shirt, light jumper and jeans.

"Er… nothing."

"You haven't told him yet."

A sheepish smile was all Sherlock could offer by way of a reply.

"Well," Rose added, approaching him, "He'll probably figure it out when he sees the baby monitor in the kitchen."

"That's what I'm hoping," Sherlock replied. "Although I'm sure he thinks Bob and Justine have a baby. Good old John. Always drawing the wrong conclusions."

"He doesn't have much to go on."

"Oh, please," Sherlock said, a light sparkle in his eye. "Yes, we have a nursery that already has an occupant—Justine let that one slip, admittedly. There's a pram in the entranceway. Clearly there's an infant in the house. Then there's you coming downstairs dressed in your pyjamas at lunchtime, claiming lack of sleep and looking at me in an accusing manner."

"I didn't—"

"I wasn't here to be the direct cause of your lack of sleep—a fact John already knows since he just travelled with me from London. But somehow it's my fault. Baby, overtired parent, absent second parent. Rose and Sherlock have had a baby together. Not a difficult deduction to make."

"For a Consulting Detective."

Rose left Sherlock to grab a hair tie from her dressing table.

"I'll join you downstairs in a minute," Sherlock said, making for the door as Rose gathered her hair up into a pony-tail. "Just need the bathroom."

Although slightly invigorated by his mini-deduction, Sherlock needed just a few minutes not in Rose's presence so he could make sure his emotions were kept well and truly at bay for now.

* * *

John kept the spoon out of Rosie's reach, deftly manoeuvring around her pudgy little outstretched fingers to insert another half teaspoon into her mouth. He glanced up and exchanged a polite smile with Rose as she entered the kitchen.

"Is that yummy, Rosie?" she said to John's daughter. "Oh, Justine, it smells amazing. Did you add the coriander after all?"

As Justine explained to Rose that she'd left out a separate bowl, minus the coriander, for Bob—an argument John had already witnessed between Bob and Justine a few moments ago—John ruminated on the fact that the Rose he knew these days wasn't that different a person to the girl they had met in the flat all those years ago. She was warm and friendly and chatty then, too—the psychology student.

"Sit down, love," Justine bid Rose.

When Rose sat across from John, she said, "Here, let me feed her. You keep eating. Mine will be too hot to start with anyway."

"Uh, yeah, thanks."

He had instantly warmed to her when discussing Sherlock's cases with her for the paper she was writing back then. This was the Rose that sat across from him now, feeding his daughter with light banter and an expert hand. But then there was that period he knew her true occupation. And, shamefully, this had clouded his judgement for a long while. He was thankful they had cleared the air between them when Sherlock was in hospital. John may have been a little drunk, but he remembered the conversation with a mild fondness, particularly the fact that Rose's wise words were the trigger that prompted him to reconsider his feelings towards his wife. Rose had confessed to him a lot about her background and John felt especially privileged she had revealed so much to him.

When Rose laughed lightly at Rosie, John felt a tiny tug on his heart for his wife again.

"I've got your number now, Miss Watson," Rose said, holding one hand in front of the highchair so Rosie could clamp her fingers around Rose's, thus keeping the little mitts occupied so they wouldn't swipe at the spoon that was feeding her mashed pumpkin.

Mary was missing out on so much, he thought.  _She_  should've been sharing this moment with him.

"Why didn't I think of that?" he said, forcing his morose thoughts from his mind.

"There's a trick to it," Rose said.

"Careful she doesn't fling it across the other side of the room," Bob piped up from the opposite end of the table. "Nearly took me eye out."

Justine bustled over and placed a bowl of steaming pumpkin soup in front of Rose.

"Here, love, it's hot," she said.

Rose thanked Justine and put down Rosie's spoon just out of reach of the infant while she moved the bowl in front of her.

"So… how long have you lived here?" John asked, trying to keep his tone light and innocent, even though he had a hundred questions to ask.

"Oh… um…" Rose furrowed her brow. She looked across to Bob. "How long Bob?"

"We moved here… April I think it were," he replied. "Yeah, just after Ned's birthday." Addressing John, he added, "Ned's our grandson."

"That's right," said Rose. "And I'd already been here a few weeks, so I guess it was mid-March that Sherlock bought the house."

John couldn't help it but his eyebrows shot up. Thankfully, his daughter had drawn Rose's attention at that moment. He gave a dry cough.

"So… Sherlock's been coming here since… since… when?"

He couldn't help but pry. The annoying git had given him  _nothing_.

"Since March," Rose said with a shy, almost apologetic, smile. "Well, February and March. We had broken up well before then and we didn't quite get back together when Sherlock first came here."

"Oh… yeah. He said you'd broken up."

"That case he was working on last year," Rose said, before looking away. "Charles Magnussen." She busied herself feeding Rosie another mouthful of pumpkin, not meeting John's gaze as she spoke. "I left London just before Christmas because of… the case."

Charles Augustus Magnussen. John's insides churned. It was indeed a tough time for them all. He wondered how the case had come between Sherlock and Rose. Not because of… John internally shuddered. …the shooting.

No, it couldn't have been that if Rose left before Christmas. Magnussen was shot on—

"Absolute bastard, that man," Justine said from across the kitchen.

"Who's a bastard?" Sherlock asked, strolling in.

"Holy Mary," John murmured, seeing Sherlock Holmes in civilian attire. With wide eyes he scanned the detective from head to toe.

Sherlock wore a light blue chambray shirt over a grey t-shirt, with straight-legged black jeans and brown boots. He looked nothing like Sherlock Holmes. What the hell was happening here?

Rose quickly glanced around then momentarily leant forward as if to take John into her confidence.

"You haven't met Scott Williams before, have you?" she said, her eyes bright with mirth. "He bought this house, actually."

"I won't have any, thanks Justine," Sherlock was saying to Justine as she held out a bowl.

"I'll have none of that, sonny Jim," Justine replied.

"Scott Williams?" John asked Rose.

"Sit down now or I'll force feed you. Look at you! You've lost weight again!"

Rose's face split into a broad grin. She looked pointedly up at Sherlock as the sullen detective took a seat next to her.

_Sherlock's living undercover in Edinburgh as Scott Williams?_  John pondered.

Turning to Bob, Sherlock said, "I see you're suffering in silence."

"I know which side my bread's buttered, lad," Bob replied. "Speaking of..."

John smiled inwardly. It seemed Sherlock needed someone like Mrs Hudson to fuss about him—a much younger, slightly more menacing version of the landlady—wherever he lived.

"Hey, love," Bob bid Justine. "How about them baps?"

"Just one," Justine said, plonking a bread roll in front of Bob. She then placed one in front of Sherlock, then added another for good measure.

"Why does he get two?"

"Because he's not the one huffing and puffing when he walks around the block!"

Justine offered John and Rose bread rolls as well, to which John nervously accepted and Rose declined.

"It's lovely out," Rose said. "We should all go for a walk after lunch." Turning to Sherlock, she added, "You should see what they're doing in the playground near the school."

"Looks like some sorta new swing set," Bob volunteered.

Sherlock gave a hum in response. He slowly stirred his soup, gave a tiny sigh, then put his spoon down. Out of the corner of his eye, John saw Rose reach across for him. Sherlock met her gaze and gave her a tiny smile in return.

Just then, a baby's stirring cough sounded from across the kitchen. John's stomach reflexively knotted until he realised his infant was sitting next to him, happily gnawing on her stolen spoon.

He saw Rose and Sherlock exchange glances before Sherlock rose from his seat.

"Coming John?" he asked.

Surely he misheard.

"Sorry… ?"

As another cry came from the vicinity of the kitchen counter, John spied the baby monitor sitting on it.

"I said, are you coming?" Sherlock bid him as he stepped away from the table.

"Er…" John responded, slowly rising from his seat. It was a reflex, surely—responding to Sherlock's orders to follow him towards whatever adventure awaited them.

John glanced at Justine and Bob. The couple appeared oblivious and continued sipping their soup in silence. Rose, on the other hand, was gazing up at John, a tiny smile playing at the corners of her mouth.

As Sherlock strode through the kitchen, flicking off the monitor on the way, John sidestepped Rosie's highchair.

"Er… could you… er…" he said, indicating his daughter to Rose.

"Yes, of course. Oh, Rosie!" As John crossed the kitchen, he heard Rose add, "How did you get that, you clever girl!"

"Come on, John!" Sherlock called from halfway up the stairs. "We mustn't keep her waiting!"

_Her?_

As he took the stairs two at a time as ever in pursuit of his ex-flatmate, John thought,  _I knew there was another baby here! I just knew it!_

_But… hang on…_

_Whose baby?_

John reached the landing, his leg muscles burning in protest and his chest heaving. Not just Bob who was out of shape. Sherlock was standing with his hand resting on the doorknob of the second room to the right.

"Please don't tell me," John began, pausing to catch his breath.

"All I ask, John," Sherlock said, "is that you refrain from swearing in front of my daughter."

Those words had no business coming from Sherlock Holmes's mouth.  _My daughter._  John gave a shake of his head. This wasn't right, even though the unmistakeable sounds of a baby working herself up into a tizz emanated through the door to the… the…  _nursery_.

"No," John said, "No, no, no, no, no, you're not…" His throat began to seize up. "This is another one of your…"

But Sherlock's mouth stretched wide. He pushed the door inwards. The cries escaped and battered John about the head.

"Oh, dear! Have you been neglected?" Sherlock asked an unseen infant. Her cries lessened a little, but John stood rooted to the landing. In the dark of the nursery, he saw Sherlock stoop and lift something from a cot. "We've got visitors," Sherlock said in a kind of gleeful whisper.

John's heart continued hammering in his chest as the light from the doorway spilled onto Sherlock as he turned around. The bundle in his arms resembled a baby. A tiny tiny baby. Did they even make them that small? Rosie had grown considerably. John was just forgetting.

"Look! It's Uncle John!" Sherlock said, coming out onto the landing and turning sideways so that the baby's face was visible. She emitted two tiny coughs. "Don't worry. He doesn't always look like a stunned mullet."

John knew he was gaping and he clamped his mouth shut before Sherlock said anything more about it. Two slate grey pools were staring back at him. Probably not really seeing him, he knew that. Those familiar-shaped eyes were surely not deducing him?

A little fist had made its way into her mouth. She was self-soothing.

"Er," John said, a thousand thoughts spilling out into that one useless sound.

"This is Grace," Sherlock said, his voice more subdued than a few seconds ago. "She was born on the 12th of September in London. I can't give you her exact weight and measurements, sorry. I know some people like that sort of thing and I'm sure Rose told me, but I've forgotten. No complications as far as I know. I wasn't there, unfortunately."

John nodded, then cleared the lump in his throat with one dry cough.

"You've got a baby," he croaked.

Sherlock emitted a rumble of a laugh.

"Nice deduction there, Doctor Watson. I thought you'd make it a lot earlier, though."

"You've… got a baby," John said again, still trying to convince himself of the fact.

Sherlock gently rubbed his daughter's back when she started her hiccuping cries again.

"I'll just change her," he said. "And then you can have a hold, if you like."

The image in front of John was still all wrong. This jeans-clad, baby-holding, Edinburgh-living  _stranger_  called Scott Williams, who just disappeared back into the nursery, may have a baby daughter. But Sherlock Holmes, the Consulting Detective from London—his  _best friend_ —did not. Could not.

John looked on as Sherlock murmured soothing words to the baby girl as she protested on the change table. He turned away. This was too much! The sight of Sherlock doting over a baby wasn't unfamiliar—he'd looked after Rosie countless times. It was Sherlock including words like "daddy" to refer to himself and "my daughter" uttered earlier that were at war in John's mind.

Sherlock had been sneaking up to Edinburgh all year, fooling his big brother into thinking he'd been attending… where? Castle Something. Hallyne, wasn't it? When all this time he'd been secretly visiting Rose, who had been expecting his baby.

Hang on… that sounded a little bit familiar. John wracked his brain.

_I actually have a secret, pregnant girlfriend up North. I thought Rosie might like to meet her before the baby arrives._

John's eyes widened in realisation. Sherlock had said those words one afternoon when the Watsons had caught him trying to sneak out of the flat with their daughter!

_Is Uncle Sherlock being funny?_  John had said to Rosie in response.

He'd admitted it to them! The stupid git!

A bubble of laughter rose up inside John. He'd told them. Sherlock had said where he was going in all honesty and they were supposed to think he was joking. The laughter escaped John in the form of a chuckle. It tightened in his chest, constricting into a giggle. Before he knew it, his whole body was quaking in laughter. John bowed his head, squeezing his eyes shut as—what was it? Seven?—seven months' worth of Sherlock's deception was laid out before him.

A secret, pregnant girlfriend up North!

John snorted in between his giggles, turning away from the nursery where Sherlock's baby daughter's cries continued intermittently. He couldn't stop the mirthful shakes. All this time and no one knowing!

_I knew_ , said Mary, bringing John's giggling to an abrupt halt.  _All that time Sherlock and I spent together. How could I not know? I could always tell when he was fibbing._

Mary knew and she'd met Rose, too. Mary would've been happy for Sherlock.

_I was_ , came her soft voice.

John's tears of laughter had turned potent. Salty tears stung his eyes and he shuddered out a single sob as a huge blanket of despair draped over him. He hunched over with the weight of it. It wasn't just the difficult times Mary wasn't here for, it was the joyous moments. The times to celebrate. And this was one of them.

_But what about you?_  she had said to Sherlock on the dance floor at their wedding reception. It was a question that had a broader meaning, not just a lack of dance partner, John knew that.

Pinching the bridge of his nose to stifle his emotions, he became quite conscious of the fact that the cries from the nursery had also stopped. But his heart ached for everything he had lost.

He turned around to the nursery and found Sherlock standing in the doorway holding a contented baby over his shoulder and watching John, his eyes rounded.

"Didn't mean to break it to you like this," Sherlock said, his voice slightly ragged. "I mean, not initially. Spur of the moment decision, really, after months and months of not really knowing how to tell you."

John gave Sherlock a resigned smile. He sniffed valiantly, thus dismissing any remaining tears, and dragged a hand down his face. To his right, footsteps resounded on the staircase and Rose came into view almost immediately.

"Everything okay up here?" she asked.

"Uh, yeah," John said, forcing a smile to his face.

When Rose reached the landing, John moved to envelope her in a hug.

"Congratulations," he said warmly. "You've done an amazing job. An utterly, utterly brilliant job." Whether he meant with the baby or on tenderising Sherlock, he wasn't quite sure.

"John's use of the English language is rather limited," Sherlock volunteered.

"Thank you, John," Rose replied.

He eased back, but before releasing her, he added, "They're very lucky to have you."

Rose returned his smile and patted his arm.

"I hope he wasn't too brutal with the way he told you."

John made a point of looking at Sherlock and raising his eyebrows.

"I'll take her now," Rose said, making her way over to her family, "and give her a quick feed."

"Oh, John was going to have a cuddle," Sherlock said.

"No, no, it's fine," John replied. "Once she's fed, that'll be better."

He looked on as Sherlock handed Grace over to Rose with a whispered, "Here's Mummy!" It stunned John that the image of the three of the them looked so natural and normal. The pang of loss within him remained.

"We won't be long," Rose said, as she disappeared inside the nursery, gently closing the door behind her.

Sherlock and John exchanged weary smiles. At the end of Sherlock's long arms, that seemed to hang uselessly by his side now that he was no longer holding his baby, his fingers waggled a little.

John thought he should put the great git out of his misery.

"Come here, then," he said, crossing the floor to his friend.

Sherlock's eyes widened ever so slightly in alarm as John approached him.

"What?"

John pulled Sherlock in for a hug. The detective-genius stiffened, his arms pinned to his side, as John patted his back.

"Congratulations," John said. "Nobody deserves this more than you."

John just as quickly released Sherlock from his embrace.

"Thank you, John, that's… nice of you to say."

John shook his head at Sherlock and said, "So, that's it then? No other surprises?" He held up his hand and counted off, "Secret home in Edinburgh, secret girlfriend, surprise baby daughter… no… pet… dog or anything?"

Sherlock suddenly looked elsewhere, then fiddled with his watch band.

"No," he said, his voice oddly tight. "No pet dog, as it turns out."

John bowed his head, his shoulders drooping. Idiot! What a thing to say!

"No," he repeated. "S-sorry." He scratched the back of his head and braved a glance at Sherlock.

The new father appeared to shrug away his thoughts, his expression brightening.

"We'd better get back downstairs and finish our lunch," Sherlock said, "before Justine drags us there by our ears."

John feigned a slight shudder.

"Yeah," he said, "I can see that happening."

As Sherlock took off downstairs, John turned back to the closed door of the nursery. A smile grew on his face and he shook his head in disbelief once more, before making for the stairs himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this extra long chapter! There's a bit more of a Mycroft reaction to come, because he hasn't actually met Grace yet :D
> 
> I know Anthea's name is probably not supposed to be Anthea (or perhaps it is? Maybe she was bluffing?). For the sake of simplicity, and so we all know to whom I'm referring, I've kept her name as Anthea.
> 
> I personally don't like using the word "girl" for woman, but it's what John says in the show, so I've used it in his POV when observing Rose.
> 
> JOHN KNOWS! Please tell me your thoughts about John's reaction – I'm dying to know!


	113. Well, He's Very Limited

Rose slid forward on the sofa, poised to rise when Sherlock rested a light hand on her arm.

"No, don't go yet," he bid her in a low voice.

Grace stirred a little over his shoulder, and he smoothed a hand down the infant's back, instantly settling her.

"What?" Rose asked. She was busting for the loo herself, now that the conversation in the living room had been interrupted.

Justine had ordered Bob to finish the dishes while she commenced the laundry. John had insisted on taking over when Bob had conveniently found a dodgy security alarm that needed inspecting. The conversation prior had been lively and entertaining—Sherlock's minor cases since his resurrection, as retold by John—and Rose hadn't wanted to miss out. In the quiet that had descended on the household, she thought she could now tend to her own needs.

"While we have a moment of privacy," Sherlock said, a curious smile on his lips.

Rose eased back into the sofa, her eyebrows raised in expectation.

"I just wanted to say I love you," Sherlock said, his expression one of boyhood innocence.

A light chuckle escaped Rose and she leant towards him to press a soft kiss to his lips.

"I love you, too," she whispered half a breath away from him.

Sherlock cupped a gentle hand to her nape to keep Rose there.

"Just one more to tide me over," he murmured.

When their lips met again, Rose found his kiss was soft and undemanding. She didn't mind this small indulgence. Sherlock appeared to exist with an undercurrent of sorrow since returning from Sherrinford, and if a kiss could "tide him over", who was she to deny him that?

Before attempting to leave for the bathroom once more, she said, "Since Grace's not really sleeping and Rosie's happily playing…" She gestured to the young Miss Watson who was sitting up on a small rug in the middle of the living room, happily taste-testing several chewy toys. "How about we all go for that walk now?"

Sherlock exhaled a tiny sigh, almost rolling his eyes in the process.

"Yes!" Rose said, emitting a laugh at his micro-protest. "It'll do us all good!"

Prior to making her way upstairs, Rose detoured to Justine and mentioned the outing to her. When she had finished up in the bathroom and returned downstairs, Rose found her plan had worked. Justine had roused everyone into moving, a tough task since she had contributed to their lethargy earlier by serving them afters in the form of a sticky date pudding. It was only Rose who had declined a serve of dessert, and Sherlock who didn't touch any of his.

Justine was explaining to Sherlock how the baby carrier worked, and he kept protesting that he already knew. Bob was opening up the pram in the front entrance and John was adding extra layers to Rosie's outfit.

Rose found there was little she had to do apart from slip on her own shoes and jacket. Justine had already taken care of Grace's warm clothing needs.

"You end up carrying her anyway," Justine said in response to Sherlock's protests of "this feels ridiculous." She adjusted the straps about his shoulders, adding, "But this is safer and more comfortable for you both."

"There's no place safer or more comfortable than directly in my arms."

"Stop your whining. She's practically in your arms, save for the safety harness. Oh, no. Where's that man gone to now?"

They were all assembled in the front entrance and Bob had disappeared. Rose checked that Grace was snug against Sherlock's chest in the carrier. Seeing the unimpressed expression on his face, she resisted the urge to take a photo using her phone. She knew he would've preferred Grace in the pram and Rosie in the baby carrier with John, but Rosie was too big for the size they owned.

"Alarm keeps going off," Bob said, as he strode in tapping his watch. His smart watch was configured to control the security system and receive notifications from it. "But it's the eastern corner now. I'll check it when we get back."

As Sherlock held the front door open for everyone, Justine tutted and shook her head.

"Birds again?" she said to Bob.

Rose folded in behind John, who was pushing Rosie in the buggy. Justine and Bob were behind her, with Sherlock locking the door and bringing up the rear with Grace.

"Birds are too small," Bob argued. "I told you that."

"A fox then," Justine mused. "Cheeky buggers."

John had trudged across the paving stones in the direction of the front pedestrian gate, pushing the pram ahead of him. Rose was about to tell him the keycode to release the lock on the gate, when back at the front porch, Sherlock said, "Wait a minute."

They all turned towards him.

"What did you say?" he said to Bob, marching towards him.

"About what?"

"The security alarm?"

Sherlock's eyes rapidly scanned the garden from left to right.

"That it went off," Bob said. "First the southern sensor, then the east—" The security expert then straightened up as if a thought had occurred to him.

Sherlock's expression hardened and he gestured with his arms wide, his palms facing downward, fingers splayed.

"There's something not right," he said in a low voice. "Bob, Justine."

The two ex-agents exchanged a glance as Sherlock strode across the pavement towards the front gate, where Rose and John waited.

"Rose," he said, taking her by the arm. "John."

With a nod in the doctor's direction, Sherlock began pulling Rose towards the house.

"Wha—?" Rose stammered, her skin prickling when she took in Sherlock's expression.

Closer to the porch, Justine and Bob had split, and each stood facing in the opposite direction, their eyes peeled.

"We're going back inside," Sherlock whispered, his hand still firmly around Rose's arm.

She glanced back at John. He had lifted Rosie from the pram.

"Sherlock," Rose said, a mild panic rising inside.

"Quiet, Rose! We just have t—"

In that instant a blur of black-clad figures emerged from behind shrubs, wooden screens and even the wheelie bins. Rose froze, unable to comprehend what she was seeing, but Sherlock released his grip on her arm and shoved her roughly behind him.

Rose's heart pulsed in her ears as dull thwacks and groans were all she heard, apart from a "Sh-it!" from John somewhere behind her. Sherlock had taken two steps backwards, shuffling her with him.

In an instant it appeared to be over… whatever this was.

Rose was shocked to see Justine sprawled face down on the paving, an assailant standing over her with a scary-looking assault weapon pressed against the back of her head. Another stood by, also pointing their weapon at her. Beside this group, a third gunman had fallen over, it seemed, and was struggling on all fours to not only get up, but also to breathe, coughing and spluttering while pulling at his throat.

"You right, Higgins?" the second gunman said, twisting around to look at his fallen comrade.

Rose took a tentative step out from behind Sherlock just as Grace began to squawk. Sherlock shot out an arm to prevent her moving forward any further. But why wasn't anyone paying attention to them? Just then another figure stepped in front of them. Her breath hitched. Sherlock reached for her hand. It was a comforting hold, she thought vaguely. Not a protective one.

The gunman pulled the mask from his head.

It felt odd seeing a fresh young face, cheeks slightly flushed, eyes twinkling, at odds with everything that had just happened and the scene that was now laid out before them.

"You're safe now, Mister Holmes," he said. "You can return to the house now."

"Safe!" Sherlock spat derisively, releasing his grip on Rose's hand.

Rose automatically smoothed a hand down the back of the baby carrier to soothe Grace, just as Sherlock did. His hand briefly covered hers, and Rose could feel his entire body bristling in anger.

As the young officer-gunman gestured toward the house, Sherlock exhaled a lengthy, "Oh…," dropping his head briefly as if a thought had just occurred.

Rose could now see Bob. He lay motionless, also prostrate, with two gunman guarding him. She felt John come up beside her, just as Rosie let out the beginnings of a cry.

Sherlock tilted his face skywards and called, "Mycroft!"

His shout stunned Rose and her heartbeat jolted into a gallop. Grace hiccuped another cry, as Sherlock turned in a slow circle, his eyes taking in every corner of the front garden. Patting his baby at the same time, he called, "Come out Brother dear! You've royally fucked up this time!"

"Sherlock! Language!" John said in a loud whisper.

Settling his eyes on one corner thickened by shrubs as the cries of infants rose around him, Sherlock added, "And you've upset the children!"

Rose had followed his gaze, her mind a whirl. Was this true? Did his brother really organise this? And for what purpose?

And then an even more unnerving thought hit her: was he here?

She held her breath as figures emerged from behind the greenery.

The man she remembered and recognised as Mycroft Holmes came striding forward, his eyes blazing. Two more gunman flanked him, but they were unmasked.

"Do you know who these people are?" Mycroft said, the fury evident in his voice as he pointed toward Bob and Justine.

Rose felt ill as his presence loomed closer. The most dangerous man she could ever meet, Sherlock had once said. He was going to destroy her once upon a time and it looked like he could easily do so again just with one glance.

"Yes," Sherlock replied, seemingly unphased by the fury evident in his brother's eyes. "Our nanny and our gardener. John…" Turning to his friend, Sherlock said, rapid-fire, "You may want to check on Bob. He could have received a blow to the head. Check for responsiveness. I'm sure you don't need me to tell you how to do your job. Justine's okay. She's just severely pissed off. Rose please take Rosie from John.

"Uh, yeah…" John replied. "And… uh… babies, remember? Language?"

"Now get rid of the riff-raff," Sherlock said to Mycroft, waving a dismissive hand at the group as Rose gently took Rosie into her arms. "They're making the place look untidy."

Mycroft took a step closer and Rose stopped breathing. The British Government official was a few inches taller than Sherlock.

Looking down at his younger sibling, he said in a low, menacing tone, "Juliette Tavernier and Henri Greuze were freelance assassins hired by the DGSE. They were due for retirement, but they disappeared. Probably gone rogue. Who knows who's employing them now to infiltrate your little… domestic setup."

"Well, that's an easy one," Sherlock replied. "I'm their employer."

"Bob? Bob, can you hear me?" John said, crouching down beside the man. Looking up at the officer who stood over him, John said, "Would you mind pointing your gun elsewhere?"

Rose softly shushed Rosie and patted her as the infant continued to cry. She would rather be nowhere near Sherlock's brother, but she felt the safest place to be right now was next to Sherlock. And besides, she didn't want to leave Grace out here.

"They are assassins, Sherlock!" Mycroft said, his voice low and fierce.

Rose couldn't believe Sherlock wasn't quaking in his boots. This man had the power to bring in an assault team and was clearly seething, his anger directed at Sherlock, and Sherlock was standing his ground, while he continued to pat Grace's back. But hadn't Sherlock always spoken with disrespect to his older brother? Rose cast her mind back to the phone conversations she'd witnessed. With these thoughts in her head, she felt a bit giddy and oddly proud of him for the stance he took.

"Did you actually do the homework yourself," Sherlock said with a note of derision in his tone, "or did you copy off the other children? You've got it wrong, Mycroft. You authorised the DGSE to provide agents to help me around Europe, remember? Tavernier and Greuze—"

"I have no knowledge of who the DGSE allocated to you. Just a file of—"

"Well, they helped me on more than one occasion. I trust them with my life." Gesturing with a turn of his head in Rose's direction, he added, "And with the lives of my family."

A warmth drizzled through Rose, but Mycroft seemed to pay no attention to either her or Grace. As a result, Rose stood just a little bit taller.

"They disappeared without notification," Mycroft said.

"Get new intel. They were  _retired_  with no payment or acknowledgement by their own government. The DGSE forced them to disappear. I expect the pen pushers wrote misleading information in their secret files. With all the work they did for this country as well as their own, I thought it apt that my little nest egg provided by Her Majesty will go into funding their retirement. With a few odd jobs around the house on their part, we've come to a comfortable agreement. Now get rid of this mess in our front garden. You're devaluing the property."

The brothers locked eyes, neither of them wavering, until at last, Mycroft blinked a couple of times. Turning his head toward the officer who had given Sherlock the all-clear earlier, he gave a tiny nod.

With an unspoken signal between them, the gunmen all shrunk away from their captives, then disappeared in two groups along either side of the house.

Where were they going? Rose thought. Through the Tennis and Lawn Bowls centre?

Justine rose in a flurry of obscenities in French before hastening to Bob's side. Rose couldn't see Bob as Mycroft was blocking her view, but she was relieved to hear John say, "You 'right to walk inside, Bob?"

She was surprised when Sherlock moved away from her.

Gesturing to her, he said, "Mycroft, I'd like to introduce Rose, my… girlfriend… and the mother of my child." Rose froze as Mycroft's steely gaze was directed to her. She felt slightly flustered when all he did was raise one eyebrow. She tightened her hold on Rosie.

"Rose," Sherlock said to her, and she was relieved she had the excuse to look at Sherlock instead of Mycroft. "This is Mycroft, my big brother. I'd like to apologise for his appalling behaviour. He doesn't get out much."

A bubble of laughter formed in Rose's throat, but she resisted the urge to release it. Her lips curled up at the edges all the same.

"Mycroft," Sherlock went on, "This is Rose's home, and if you're lucky, she may invite you in for a cup of tea. Otherwise, I can call you a cab, or there's a particularly reliable bus service that runs along Morningside Road."

Mycroft clenched his jaw, then stated through beady eyes, "I have a car waiting."

Once again, Rose found herself under Mycroft Holmes's scrutiny. He appeared to be waiting for something. She felt Rosie curl her little fingers around a strand of her hair as the infant dropped her head onto Rose's shoulder. She was clearly tired.

Feeling emboldened by Sherlock's general disdain for his brother and the recognition Sherlock gave her, she widened her smile a little.

"Mycroft," she said, her voice oddly calm and sounding foreign to her ears, "would you like to come inside for a cup of tea? I'm sure you're very tired after your long journey. Excuse me, though, I have to get this little one inside." She felt her expression brightening, and without waiting for an answer, she navigated around both men and headed towards the house, her heart pounding. She expected a contingent of armed soldiers to descend on her at any moment to arrest her for treason or something.

Warmed by a distant chuckle behind her from Sherlock, she continued on through the already open door and crossed the entranceway to the kitchen.

Bob was sitting on a dining chair, his head bowed, while John tended to his head wound. Justine looked to be assisting, but her attention was instantly drawn to Rose.

"Here, love," she said, striding towards her. "Let me take her. You all right?"

Rose was stunned to see Justine energetically bustling about as much as she ever did.

"Justine, are  _you_  all right? You've just been…" Rose's eyes darted to a fresh bruise on Justine's neck. Justine practically pulled the baby girl from Rose's grasp.

"Oh, that were a whole lot of nonsense, hey?" Justine said to Rosie. "A big puff of air from a big bad wolf. And you're knackered, poor love." She cuddled the infant to her. Rose looked on, bewildered by her nanny's casual attitude. "Oh, and we've left the pram outside." Making for the kitchen door with Rosie in her arms, she added, "Can't leave it out there. Looks like it's going to rain after all. Lucky we didn't make it all the way to the shops. Though, there's nowt in the house for dinner."

With that, she disappeared through the entrance.

Her head still spinning, Rose quickly approached Bob and John.

"Are you okay, Bob?" she asked, resting a light hand on the man's shoulder.

"I cannot tell a lie, Rose," he said, his head still bowed as he held an ice pack to it. "I feel like a mashed potato."

Rose's insides twisted, hearing the heavy sorrow in his voice.

"I'm sorry this happened," she said.

"He'll be fine," John said, stepping away. "It's superficial, but we will have to keep an eye out for signs of concussion."

John moved away to wash his hands in the sink.

"Are you all right, love?" Bob asked her, lifting his head, his eyes rounded in concern. "You're looking a bit pale about the gills."

Rose felt her own eyes well with tears. She couldn't believe everyone was okay. Justine was worrying about dinner, John was doing his doctorly stuff, Bob was worried about  _her_ , for fuck's sake, when he was the one who'd been knocked out.

She gave him a vague nod, and tried to smile, but all the same, her head swam and her skin prickled.

'Well, he sure feels like a complete arse," Sherlock said, sweeping into the kitchen through the doorway that adjoined the living room. "Business as usual."

At the sight of Grace still in the baby carrier, Rose's stomach churned.

"Grace!" she cried, crossing the room to Sherlock. "Is she okay?"

"She's absolutely fine… but… but you're not."

His arms encircled her as Rose felt the blood drain from her face and she lost all strength in her legs.

"Yep… okay," she heard John say as gentle arms guided her to a chair. "Here we go." The room swam and her vision became blackened around the edges. Voices flitted in and out, as if she was submerging in water. As her stomach roiled and clenched, she gasped, "Going to… be… sick."

"I'm on that as well," came John's business-like voice as a large cooking pot was placed at her feet. Her skin became cold and clammy before she gave into the involuntary needs of her body.

As she expelled the contents of her lunch, all Rose could think about was the pumpkin soup now returning to the pot it had been cooked in. Oh, God. Justine would be so furious.

"You'll be okay, Rose," she heard Sherlock whisper.

Talking continued around her but Rose barely heard them, except for the occasional exclamation from Sherlock along the lines of, "No, this clasp! Don't tug, just gently lift!" Visions of Sherlock desperately trying to get Grace out of the baby carrier passed through her mind. She felt a kind of hysterical giddiness.

After her stomach had finished retching, a facecloth was thrust in front of her.

"Here, love." It was Justine's voice now.

"There's water here, if you need it," said Bob.

The pot of fresh vomit was also whisked away by a person unseen.

Rose had squeezed her eyes shut as she soothed her face with the cloth. It was cool and damp and welcome. She gulped down the water, then bowed her head again, cooling it once more with a few swipes of the cloth.

As she concentrated on slow and regular breaths, she heard Sherlock say, "And now lift this way." She braved a glance. He was now passing Grace to John, half the baby carrier still around the infant. Sherlock met her gaze and adjusted his shirt. An affectionate smile grew on his face as he approached her.

"Hello," he said, crouching on his haunches in front of her. "The things you'll do to get out of changing a nappy, hmm?"

Rose smiled weakly at Sherlock's attempts to cheer her up.

"You'll be fine. We all feel sick after our first raid by Special Forces, isn't that right, John?"

"Huh?" John said, distractedly pulling the carrier away from Grace's legs. "Oh… yeah. Yes, yes, definitely."

Rose huffed a small laugh as Sherlock reached up and smoothed a strand of hair away from her face. He left his hand there, cupping her face.

"Just take your time," he said, gently running his thumb across her cheekbone. "Would you like me to run you a bath?"

On the periphery, Rose saw John glance around in interest. She supposed this offer sounded odd to him, coming from the mouth of Sherlock Holmes.

"No, I'm fine," she replied, covering his hand with hers. "I might just freshen up a bit, though."

Sherlock smiled in response, then dropped his hand. He rose just a little, planted a kiss on her forehead, then straightened up fully. Rose allowed him to assist her to stand.

"I'm fine," she said again. She reached for the glass of water Bob had refilled for her before he had quietly skulked away himself.

Passing through the kitchen, Rose rubbed a soft hand over Grace's back while she was being held by John.

"Back in a minute," she murmured.

She noted that Justine had left the kitchen at some stage.

Climbing the stairs on shaky limbs, a sense of disappointment rippled through her. She hadn't done anything to help! Bob and Justine had been attacked! John had dutifully tended to Bob's injuries, Sherlock had appeased his bloody brother and called off the Special Forces team, and all Rose could do was faint and vomit! Pathetic!

She made it to the bathroom upstairs, her face flushed with shame and embarrassment. As she closed the door, she heard Justine's soothing voice from the nursery. And now the former assassin was putting John's baby daughter to sleep! Rose couldn't even manage that!

She gulped down her water, placed the tumbler onto the shelf beside the sink, then sniffed. She regarded her reflection in the mirror. Bloodshot eyes, pallid complexion. Pathetic.

Rose brushed her teeth twice.

Still feeling a little delicate, she sank onto the edge of the bathtub.

A quiet sob escaped her, and she did nothing to stifle the tears that began to flow freely. She knew it had to come out. She had just experienced a traumatic event. This was normal! But she still couldn't push away the feeling of helplessness as her body shuddered with gentle sobs. This was Sherlock's world, and she had decided to be a part of it. She had to learn how to cope better, because he had to deal with more important things than mopping her brow. It was up to her to hold the baby in times of crisis, because there were  _assailants_  with  _rifles_ , and God help her if she ever let Sherlock Holmes  _hold his baby in front of him_ again!

 _Oh, God, you idiot!_  she thought of herself. That's what was bothering her the whole time. She couldn't take Grace from Sherlock. She was fastened into the baby carrier and he was on the front line. He'd pushed Rose behind him, but his bloody child was in front of him. No wonder Rose had vomited.

Rose stood, splashed her face with cold water, a new determination motivating her. She would belong in this world. She would be a good mother and supportive partner. She would never fall to pieces again!

Rose patted her face to get the blood flowing. Her reflection showed an improvement, but you didn't need to be a Consulting Detective to know she'd had a good cry. She drew in a steadying breath then left the bathroom.

Halfway downstairs, she encountered John.

"Just checking Bob's okay," he said, smiling ruefully. "You all right?"

"I'm going to be fine," she said.

"Yeah," he agreed, before inhaling deeply. "Listen… you know this…" he gestured vaguely towards the downstairs area, "… this isn't a normal day with Sherlock Holmes."

"Yes, I know."

"But it's also not…" He gave her a sheepish smile. "It's also not unusual."

"I think I know that, too."

John cleared his throat. He obviously had more to say.

"You know, Rose, I've been kidnapped more times than I can count since I met him…  _because_  of him. But… I wouldn't want to live my life any other way. Not… not the kidnapping thing. That… that's shit, really. But he does protect those around him. He really goes to great lengths to protect those he cares about. And I reckon you and Grace are at the top of the list these days."

"I know," Rose said quietly. Thoughts of what Sherlock did to protect Mary and her from Charles Augustus Magnussen careered through her mind.

"You  _will_  be safe," John continued. "He'll make sure of it.  _I'll_  make sure of it. And now Grace has got an overbearing uncle who will make sure of it. Because today…" John pointed down the stairs once more. "… today was Mycroft Holmes ensuring your protection. That's what that was. In his own mistaken, bumbling way."

"He was protecting Sherlock."

"No," John said, with a shake of his head. "If Sherlock was in danger, Mycroft would see how deep he could get. It's… it's a kind of spectator sport for him. Mycroft's not one for swooping in at the last minute for Sherlock. It's almost like he knows Sherlock will get himself out, then he saunters in and criticises him for how slow he was or how stupid he was for taking on such a dull case. No, this was definitely not for Sherlock. This was for your benefit. You and Grace."

"He barely looked at us."

"Yeah, he does that. Tends to talk at people, or around them. Don't worry. He's quite boring when you actually have a conversation with him. I'd savour this moment in time if I were you."

Rose couldn't help but smile. She reached up and pulled John in for a hug.

"Thank you," she whispered. Perhaps she needed to hear all that.

Rose found Sherlock still in the kitchen, holding Grace over his shoulder while he poured milk into tea cups on the kitchen counter.

"Feeling better?" he asked, without looking up.

"Yes. Slightly." It didn't surprise Rose that Sherlock wasn't fawning all over her. He did almost laugh the time she had been traumatised by Mary pulling an empty gun on her. This was something she'd have to process by herself, although she also had Bob, Justine, or even John to fall back on later, if she needed the support.

She went on, "I will have that bath a bit later, though. Once everyone else has finished using the bathroom."

"Full house at the moment," he said, placing the milk container onto the counter and replacing the lid.

"Will Mycroft be staying over?"

"God, no. He can have this cup of tea, then be on his merry way. Lots of small countries to invade, diplomats to manipulate. He's just spent the last fifteen minutes filing a top secret report for a top secret mission that never existed in the first place. Unfortunately, Justine crushed some poor squaddie's windpipe. He'll be okay… but still. The paperwork."

Rose took a moment to reflect on the armed assailant who was on all fours, struggling to breathe.

Sherlock strode the length of the kitchen to deposit the milk back into the fridge.

"I'll get to your tea in a minute," he said. "Some flowery thing that needs longer to steep. This one's for Mycroft. I'll just take it to him."

"No, Sherlock," Rose said. "I'll take it to him."

Sherlock paused, his brow furrowed.

"Mycroft and I have barely met," Rose explained. "In fact," she said, reaching out, "I'll take Grace in as well."

"Okay, we'll all go in."

"No. Just me and Grace."

"Why?"

"We need to get better acquainted."

Rose's hands encircled Grace's torso. She wasn't going to take no for an answer, so she raised an eyebrow at Sherlock until he released his daughter.

He gave a light cough.

"There's something you should know, then," he said.

"What?" Rose asked, settling Grace against her shoulder and warming at the feel of her soft head against her cheek at last.

"At… at Sherrinford."

Rose's stomach flipped. Sherlock's expression had dropped again.

"It wasn't pleasant," he went on. "And… Mycroft… like I said—he doesn't get out much."

"What are you trying to tell me?"

"Be… gentle."

Rose reached a hand out and gave Sherlock's arm an affectionate rub.

"Since when haven't I been gentle to somebody who's had a traumatic experience?"

Sherlock's mouth quirked into a smile.

"He's in safe hands then," he said.

Rose gave Sherlock a peck on the cheek, then carefully lifted Mycroft's tea cup and saucer from the counter. With a confident stride and a light heart, and her daughter safely snuggled against her, Rose made her way through the adjoining doorway to the living room to meet her daughter's uncle properly this time.

 


	114. You Were Always the Grown-up

 

Mycroft bristled. Didn't these half-wits get it yet?

"I don't care about the double-glazing," he said, emphasising each word. "Just make sure it can't be removed this time!"

As he about-turned in front of the fireplace, he was startled to see  _that woman_ and her _… offspring_  entering the living room, cup of tea in hand. His chest tightened.

"Yes, text me when it's done, thank you."

Disappointed he had to finish on a rather dull note, he watched as she set the tea down onto a side table, bending at the knees because of the way she carried her child in front of her, no doubt.

"Sorry for interrupting your phone call," she said.

Mycroft gave her a brief smile. She may mistake it for being one of polite acknowledgement and mild forgiveness, but Mycroft meant, 'Yes, you did.' He could've given the project manager an earful for another five minutes at least.

"Here's your tea. Sherlock made it for you," she said, her expression pleasant, her eyes, though showing obvious signs of recent emotional distress, demonstrated a certain… agreeableness.

Mycroft's eyes flicked towards the door leading into the kitchen.

"Thank you. And where is my brother?"

Her smile twitched wider. How absolutely irritating. But her eyes… they moved… searchingly.

"He's… probably hanging out the washing."

She maintained eye contact with Mycroft after making that statement. He longed to raise an eyebrow, letting her know there were obvious tells she was lying, but a tiny laugh then followed her words. Dammit. She knew it was a blatant fabrication. A far-fetched notion—Sherlock and domestic duties.

"Most amusing," Mycroft replied. He almost appreciated the humour, if it wasn't for the fact that Sherlock's purposeful absence meant her presence in Mycroft's company was planned. He internally shuddered.

"Please, have a seat," she said, gesturing to the armchair nearest his cup of tea.

"I prefer to remain standing."

"Oh, I'll have to insist, I'm afraid," she said. "I'd prefer you to be seated for this."

Of all the…!

A power play? But of course, someone of her stature would need an advantage over him. Was she going to make a little speech about that minor disturbance of the peace in broad daylight? Sherlock had already made his thoughts known on the matter. And the nearest neighbour consisted of a little used Tennis and Lawn Bowls centre that had been closed for repairs for months. Surely this was overkill.

"Ladies first," Mycroft said, gesturing towards the armchair opposite, ingratiating her with one of his deadly smiles. He was nothing if not a gentleman, after all.

"She won't let me sit when she's like this. She'll think I'm going to feed her and she doesn't need it right now. I don't want her to fall asleep at the breast. I'm pretty sure she's using me for comfort and it does hurt after a while."

The foreign words hit Mycroft's mental Hansard recordings and were duly redacted. He understood the gist of her response, though. She was not going to sit, and he was required to. The rest was meaningless white noise.

But what harm would befall him if he acquiesced to her request?

Mycroft cleared his throat, then took to the armchair. He glanced at his tea. He longed to take a sip—ruling his brother's universe often left him parched—but he thought he'd find out what this little meeting was about first.

The infant scrunched up her legs and let out a squawk in protest. Mycroft furrowed his brow. Were they supposed to carry on a sensible conversation with such random distractions? The gentle shushing that accompanied this infantile outcry brought back memories of Mummy and her not-so-quiet and desperate attempts to calm baby Sherlock, which often left a young Mycroft exasperated in her wake. But the mother in front of him didn't demonstrate the same incompetent air. She seemed to know what she was doing.

Mycroft narrowed his eyes, his auditory senses honing in on the cry. He almost... recognised… the cadence—the prolongations, the intervals.

"So… I wanted to ask you something," she said, rearranging the baby on her shoulder. Mycroft merely raised an eyebrow, but took this moment to reach for the tea cup. "A few people have said Grace looks like Sherlock."

Grace? Ah, that's what the child's name was. Mycroft had received a copy of the paperwork from Anthea, but that little detail skipped his attention.

"How can they tell?" he asked, slightly amused. The interest people took in the trivial. He brought the cup to his lips and sipped. The tea warmed him immediately, a familiar comfort drizzling through him. Damn. Sherlock had steeped it to perfection on purpose. Two and a half minutes. Two sugars. Just a small splash of milk.

"Her eyes," she replied. "Or at least the shape of them. They haven't quite got their colour yet. They could always turn brown, like mine. But the shape is definitely his." She moved closer. Mycroft's early warning system went from green to orange.

He gulped another sip before replacing the cup onto the table.

"Ms Sulford. I don't see what—"

"Rose," she said.

He blinked. "I'm sorry?"

"Please call me Rose."

"Why? That isn't your name."

"What?" she asked, with a tiny laugh in her voice. "Yes, it is."

Mycroft instantly retrieved the relevant record.  _Rosemarie Sulford_. Oh, dear Lord, she was one of those. Like Mummy and her annoying quirk of calling him 'Myc'. And that's how his brother had referred to Ms Sulford in the past as well. No wonder it sounded like Sherlock was speaking gibberish half the time.

"You want me to abbreviate your name?" he asked, wrinkling his nose.

"Yes. If you don't mind. All my friends and f… family…" She cleared her throat. "Um… call me Rose."

_Curious_  her hesitation on the word  _family_. Mycroft duly highlighted the word in his mental Hansard transcript to analyse later.

"Very well."

"And… may I call you... Mycroft, instead of Mr Holmes? I already did, anyway. Thought I should ask."

He knew this was coming. Damn Sherlock and his entourage of ordinary people. 'Mr Holmes' put some distance between him and the goldfish, while lending him the distinction he deserved. But now John Watson had set the precedent.

"If you must."

He gifted her with one of his rare smiles. Sherlock often remarked it made him look like a lizard, but the insufferable child  _would_  say that.

"So, here, have a look." She had breached his personal space now. Indicators changed from orange to red. Mycroft straightened up in his seat, his skin prickling. "This is Grace… Sherlock forgot to introduce her to you. So, what do you think..." She seemed completely oblivious to the space she had invaded, stooping over him, "… as someone who knew him as a baby?"

Ms Sulford… Rosemarie…  _Rose_ … held out the bundle in her arms at Mycroft's eye-level. He almost spluttered with her close proximity, but what was worse, she lowered the baby, hovering inches above his lap. Mycroft Holmes froze.

"Here," she said softly.

Here…? What… what was she asking?

"Arrange your arms like this."

Mycroft's arms slowly moved of their own accord. A curious reaction when someone hands you something. Ordinary people just take whatever is proffered. What in God's name was  _he_  doing?

He received the full weight of the squirming bundle. His heart began to pound, making him aware of its existence.

"Just move your hand," Rose said encouragingly. She placed Mycroft's hand beneath the baby's head. "To support her neck." She was actually touching him with no permission sought or reservations experienced. "That's right." Mycroft was beyond feeling. His arms felt rather foreign to him. "Don't be afraid—"  _afraid?_  "— to bring her in closer to your chest. She'll prefer the security of a firm hold."

Mycroft's head began to spin as he looked down at this life he now literally held in his arms. All kinds of vaguely familiar scents tickled his nostrils.

"So…" she began, straightening up. What was the woman doing? Leaving her baby entirely in his care?

Mycroft had forgotten what she wanted to know. State secrets? She hadn't signed the Official Secrets Act yet, surely.

"Oh," Rose exclaimed. "She's looking at you."

Mycroft refocussed on the individual that was gazing up at him. Dull grey pupils locking onto his antarctic blue ones.

"It's your Uncle Mycroft," Rose whispered to Grace.

_Uncle…?_

_Mycroft?_

Those two words had no business being spoken side by side.  _Uncle - Mycroft_. They swirled about him, two words dancing as one, taking on a life of their own.

As the infant maintained her unwavering gaze, her pupils large black pools within a grey concrete disk, Mycroft's jaw slackened. He felt a familiar pang in his heart looking at the cherubic face. So oddly familiar. Could it be?

"Sherlock," he murmured, his heart expanding.

He was a big brother at last! No longer alone in this world, negotiating around adults and their naïve expectations. A comrade for life. His baby brother lay contentedly in his arms, staring at Mycroft with no judgement or mockery in his eyes. A warmth flooded through him, and he felt a fierce surge of protectiveness.

"You think so?"

He blinked, not realising where he was and that he'd spoken out loud. The rest of the world came crashing back in. His heart shrank back into its hidey-hole.

He gave a light cough, and said, "No. She's too fat."

When Rose laughed lightly, he suddenly flushed.

"My apologies," he rushed to add. "I mean… Sherlock was slimmer, but there is some… resemblance."

"She does feed a lot," Rose said.

The baby wrinkled her forehead before tiny fists waved in the air. She scrunched up her face and emitted a squawk. Mycroft automatically knew what that protest meant. A little used module in his brain had kicked into gear. He slid forward in his chair.

"Oh," Rose said, "She probably wants—"

"To move around," Mycroft finished for her, rising. "Sherlock was the same."

As he padded across the rug in front of the fireplace, the squirming child in his arms, Rose said, "Sherlock always does that. Paces."

"It's the natural rhythm," Mycroft said, not lifting his gaze from the child. "It's soothing." When he reached the wall, he slowly turned around and headed in the opposite direction.

"I do that, too," Rose continued, with a tiny sigh, "But as soon as I put her down, she wakes up, or she doesn't sleep for very long."

"Mmm," Mycroft replied. A familiar story. It took him weeks of explaining to Mummy that Sherlock didn't like the stillness of the air. Mummy had dismissed his advice as poppycock. Quiet and stillness were what babies needed, she said.

"Your nursery is probably too quiet for him," Mycroft told Rose. "Sorry… I mean,  _her_."

"Too quiet?"

Mycroft about-faced once more, revelling in the strength of his arms now. She felt as light as a feather. Sherlock had weighed him down, although Mycroft was only seven at the time. He remembered the pain in his arms, the stiffness in his neck and shoulders.

In the still of the night, he'd often steal into the nursery, plucking his baby brother from the cot just as he began to stir and before he woke Mummy. The young Mycroft carried Sherlock through the hallways of their house, up and down, through the kitchen and living area, and back again, for hours, it seemed, just so he'd stay asleep. A sleep-deprived Mummy was not a woman you would want to be around. Besides, Mycroft came to love the quiet bonding time he had with his new sibling.

" _Laboro… laboras… laborat… laboramus… laboratis_ …"

"Pardon?"

Once again, Mycroft emerged from his trance, the heat of embarrassment creeping across his cheeks.

"Latin," he said, with a sheepish smile. "First conjugation verbs.  _I work, you work_ … etcetera. I had to learn them by rote. I was home from school, but I still had to keep up with my studies."

Memories flitted past. Disturbing memories.

Professor Robinson—perpetually moody and cranky after injuring a leg, some said, after chasing down a man who he'd caught having sex with his wife—would thoroughly punish those boys who couldn't recite their verb tables on command. While Mycroft Holmes never had any trouble remembering the various verb endings, nor the rules governing latin grammar, when confronted with a cantankerous old professor, he'd stall and stammer.

On one such occasion, the professor had hoisted a hefty Mycroft Holmes onto a coat hook by the door to set an example to the other boys. When the hook broke, the entire classroom descended into raucous laughter. Mycroft had never lived it down. Back then, his weight was a problem, even though he'd later lose quite a few pounds because of his nightly walks with Sherlock. Not that anybody noticed.

These were the days before Mycroft learned how to manipulate those with lesser minds into becoming something resembling his minions.

Immediately dismissing those unpleasant thoughts, he continued.

"Chanting latin verb declensions seemed to soothe Sherlock. A regular rhythm, you see, and some noise to break the silence."

"Sherlock thinks out loud as he paces."

"Yes. I suppose that works wonders for her, too."

On the periphery of his vision, he noticed Rose settling into the armchair opposite the one he'd previously occupied.

"We don't have any trouble getting her to sleep," she said. "It's the staying asleep that's the problem."

He turned again at the end of the rug.

"Try an electric fan," he suggested, "not that you have to point it at the cot. It's the noise you need. Or perhaps a radio that's not tuned properly… an old-fashioned unit, obviously. The digital ones…" He trailed off. Grace's blinks were growing slower. A smile grew on Mycroft's face. He knew he had her.

"A fan?" Rose mused, almost to herself. "What about running water? A waterfall? Or other sounds of nature? There's these apps you can download…"

But Mycroft wasn't really listening. As he moved across the room, he had eyes only for one.

Eyelids pressed to slits, lips slightly parted, the almost imperceptible increase in weight in his arms. She was asleep, an innocent in repose. Trusting in him completely.

_Uncle Mycroft._

_You may call me Uncle Myc_ ,  _if that's easier, and if you so desire,_  he thought.

_My-cwoft_!

The call echoed through his mind. The arms of an excited toddler wended around his neck and held fast as Mycroft sat on the picnic rug at the beach.

_My-cwoft_!

Unconditional love. Admiration for a hero. Mycroft Holmes meant everything to Sherlock.

And vice-versa.

"…her cot?" Rose was asking.

"I'm sorry?" Mycroft said, jolting himself out of his memories, dragging his eyes from the infant to her mother.

"Her cot, upstairs. Do you want me to take her up?"

The hold the infant girl now had on his heart meant he'd be in freefall if he relinquished her now. Mycroft blinked, startled at this revelation.

He cleared his throat.

"She's still restless," he said. "Perhaps if I sit and hold her for a while." He indicated his armchair with a nod of his head. "My close proximity is what she needs now. A heartbeat. It's a steady sound. And I'll stand up again, if she stirs."

Mycroft couldn't quite interpret Rose's smile as he took to his seat.

"And besides," he said, striving to create an indifferent air about him, "I haven't finished my tea."

"Oh! I left my tea in the kitchen," Rose said, vacating her chair. "I'll be back in a minute."

Mycroft took another sip from his cup and grimaced. A bit on the cold side now, unfortunately.

He regarded the precious bundle in his arms and watched as her chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm.

They'd have to get Sherlock's name on the birth certificate of course. She was a Holmes, after all.

Or should they? What trouble would that cause?

Perhaps Scott Williams, then. There ought to be a father's name recorded and one that would secretly link back to Sherlock and therefore the protection of the Holmes name. What precautions did his brother take to ensure her financial security should anything happen to him? Mycroft would set up a trust fund, naturally. Of that there would be no doubt.

Now, as for schools…

A school in England not Scotland, definitely. And there may be a waiting list for—

"Better make sure she doesn't trick you into buying sweets from a shop in Scarborough."

Sherlock was casually leaning against the door frame, with his hands thrust into his pockets. Pushing off from his position, he added, "An entire bag can't be good for tooth development."

"You threatened to scream down the whole shop."

"I  _did_  scream down the whole shop," Sherlock said, making his way towards him, "and not because I wanted the sweets. I thought the shop was owned by a wicked witch."

Sherlock stopped in front of the rug and regarded his daughter, a light twinkle in his eye.

"Rose didn't want me to put her down," Mycroft quickly explained. "She said she's too restless."

"I don't doubt it," Sherlock responded, in a tone and slight curling of the lips that suggested he  _did_  doubt it.

His brother was still wearing that ridiculous outfit. Did he really want to blend in with the natives?

At that moment, Rose re-entered the room carrying her cup of tea. She ran a hand down Sherlock's arm as she passed him. Sherlock didn't bat an eyelid at the gesture, merely looked at her and gave a tiny smile. Mycroft looked away, not knowing how to process the fact that his brother was in something as ordinary as a relationship with this woman.

"Sherlock, do you mind?" Rose asked. "Justine left the laundry in the machine, but she's upstairs with Rosie. Could you hang it out?"

"Hang it out? What is this… Yorkshire?"

"Well, put it in the dryer then."

She fixed Sherlock with a look Mycroft couldn't decipher. When Sherlock tutted and made for the door, Mycroft struggled to understand the meaning behind their exchange. That his brother had just agreed to undertake a domestic chore was a puzzle in itself.

Rose took to her seat once more, placing her cup down on the table beside her.

It was in that moment that Mycroft realised the effect his little afternoon raid had on Rosemarie Sulford. Her current appearance contrasted strongly with how she had looked in the garden. Obviously, she'd had a strong emotional response after the fact. Her complexion had suffered, not to mention whatever psychological effects the afternoon's event had made on her.

Mycroft gave a dry cough.

"I must apologise extensively for my reaction over a case of mistaken identity earlier… or rather, an accurate analysis of identity, but a poor interpretation of motivation."

Rose's brows lifted.

"You apologise the same way Sherlock does," she said.

"I'm sorry?"

"It doesn't matter," she replied, with a brief smile. "But I'm not sure what you thought you were doing, but you do know there were babies out there, including your niece," she said, dropping her gaze to the precious bundle in Mycroft's arms before continuing, "when your special forces people were running around with guns?"

"A careful observer would have noticed the firearms weren't loaded. The clips were safely—"

" _I_  wouldn't have noticed."

"No. But Sherlock would have. And I daresay Doctor Watson knew, too."

Rose ruminated on this detail for a moment. Perhaps his brother hadn't reassured Ms Sulford on the precise level of danger they had faced.

"And Justine and Bob would've known," she said, "so what was the point?"

"We were rather hoping they would've been too pre-occupied to notice. In the event that my officers couldn't neutralise them at a ratio of three to one, then the sharpshooters by my side were instructed to take them out."

When Rose blanched, Mycroft realised he'd misspoken.

"So… so you still had armed weapons out there."

"Ms Sulford…  _Rose_ ," he said, lowering his voice. "It was a necessary precaution. The reputations of Tavernier and Greuze were such that—"

"I don't see them like that. They're Bob and Justine to me."

"Yes. I see, but—"

"I'm so close to accepting your apology," she said, with a slight narrowing of her eyes. "Don't spoil it."

Mycroft bit back his response. In the diplomatic world, sometimes knowing when to stop speaking was the best strategy.

"My apologies," he said, with a tiny bow of his head.

"I accept your apology."

Well, that was over rather quickly. But which apology had she accepted? For his misspoken words or his raid by Special Forces?

"With that behind us," Rose began, "or…. I guess, not quite behind us… not me, anyway… it's actually first and foremost on my mind."

_Contradictory words. Curious._

"I wanted to ask you a favour. You as a… as… whatever you are."

Mycroft sat just a little bit taller and raised his eyebrows.

"I merely occupy a minor position in the British Government," he recited.

"Yes," Rose readily agreed. "Of course you do. It's just that…" She paused and glanced at the door before lowering her voice. "I don't want Sherlock to know. He might not approve."

Mycroft found himself straining to listen. This almost sounded… interesting. And now he knew why Rose had sent Sherlock away to complete a domestic chore.

But when someone asks a favour, it puts them in the awkward position of owing one in return. Mycroft's mind ticked over.

"Although, he might approve," Rose went on. "You never know. But I'd rather keep this between us."

"Do go on," he replied.

Now this was something worth listening to, he mused, while Rose gathered her thoughts. Rosemarie Sulford had particular skills Mycroft Holmes would find useful. He would listen to her request, most likely grant it, and then he'd submit one of his own. Surely she wouldn't say no, not when he reminded her of the skillset she possessed?

 


	115. Is This An Occasion for Banter?

Sherlock huffed at the inanimate object that was about to be his undoing. He was a genius for fuck's sake. Why was this so difficult?

"No… Sherlock," John said, yet again. "Look, you can't turn that knob without tightening the rails first. It's a safety issue. Just let me do it."

"For God's sake," Sherlock muttered, and he stalked off.

The travel cot was beneath him. Surely the manufacturers had engineered the most inefficient way of assembling the thing. Moving it from upstairs in Bob and Justine's sitting room, where Grace was originally supposed to spend the night, back down to Sherlock and Rose's bedroom had been an exercise in frustration. The narrow staircase to the second floor meant the cot had to be collapsed again to bring it downstairs.

Now, if Sherlock could pry his daughter out of his brother's grasp to actually put her in the cot...

What were they talking about anyway? Rose and Mycroft. They'd been at it for forty-five minutes at least. Wasn't that the average length of a therapy session?

Sherlock had already interrupted them once, having finally figured out the dryer. Well, he didn't know what any of the silly little buttons meant, so he kept pushing them at random until the stupid thing looked like it was doing what it was meant to be doing: spinning clothes around.

When he'd entered the room earlier, Rose and Mycroft stopped talking, virtually mid-sentence. Rose had her hands clasped together in her lap, a sure sign she'd been wringing them, therefore the subject matter was quite harrowing. Mycroft still held Grace in his arms, and his features were relaxed, yet pensive. Not the expression Mycroft usually wore when he was tearing someone to shreds.

Both of them stared at Sherlock until he said, "So… should I find some more chores to attend to?"

Rose had silently nodded, while Mycroft replied, "If you would be so kind."

Dismissed like an underling!

He'd visited Bob and Justine upstairs. Reassured Bob he'd check the security sensors, which he did, by circumnavigating the house, stopping outside the living room window and staring at Mycroft, trying to lip-read until his brother shooed him away.

There was nothing wrong with the security sensors. They had done what they were designed to do. It was human error, and not just Bob's fault, either, Sherlock was quick to point out to the man. The silent alarm had been triggered by Mycroft's bods surrounding the house. Bob had too easily dismissed the notification on his smart watch, seeing it as a possible malfunction, thinking nobody would ever try a house invasion in broad daylight. And Sherlock had been too slow to catch on.

Sherlock reached the ground floor, having left John to assemble the cot. He was surprised to encounter Mycroft and Rose exiting the living room for the entranceway. Rose was now holding her daughter again.

"Mycroft's leaving," Rose said.

Her eyes were bright and her smile genuine. So, in conclusion, not traumatised by his brother. Bit hard to tell definitively, though, since the remnants of her previous crying session were still evident on her face.

"Bound, once more, for Sherrinford," Mycroft added, with a slight downturn of his mouth.

Sherlock's stomach twisted on Mycroft's behalf. He attempted to brush off his discomfort by quipping, "Don't forget to pack up your toy soldiers."

"They were withdrawn some time ago," Mycroft replied with a pleasant smile. It was unnerving. Had the man taken a happy pill? "So, I'll see you on Friday, Sherlock. London, my office, Downing Street. Let's say ten o'clock? I'll invite our parents to come at midday. We'll have to get our stories straight of course."

"Stories straight?  _Your daughter's alive after all and has been locked up for most of her life. The End._  There's no story to get straight."

"Sherlock," Rose said.

That one word warning from Rose, and the way she spoke it, revealed so much to Sherlock. The almost hour long session. Rose and Mycroft. Sherlock narrowed his eyes at her.

"Mycroft told you all about Sherrinford," he deduced.

Her eyes flickered just enough to cause his heart to sink. Images swam in his mind of all that had happened. And now Rose knew. He hadn't been prepared for her to be burdened with all that so soon.

"Oh, for goodness sake," Mycroft exclaimed.

"No... no," Sherlock went on, ignoring the shredding of his insides. But he didn't want either Mycroft or Rose to think he was angry or upset. "I understand," he said, his voice fraying. "Rose doesn't want me to put any blame on your shoulders. And… I don't. Our uncle… Uncle Rudy—"

"—was retired early at the age of fifty."

"Even so, I don't—"

"Let's leave it for now, Sherlock."

His brother's voice was oddly calm. Was it now the presence of Rose and Grace that dampened the man's enthusiasm for arguing with him?

Rose approached Sherlock and gave his hand a squeeze. Her touch instantly appeased him, as if she now cradled his heart in her hands.

"I'll just take Grace up," she said. "We can talk later." Turning to his brother, she smiled and said, "Mycroft."

Mycroft's response was instantaneous. His mouth stretched wide. With a tiny bow of his head, he said, "I hope I'll see both of you again very soon."

Sherlock tried to give Rose a reassuring smile as she passed him. Her exit was strategic, Sherlock surmised. She had decided now was the right time to leave the brothers to talk about their issues in private.

Of course, they would not, but Sherlock appreciated her gesture all the same.

"Oh, Rose," he said, when she was halfway up the stairs. "The cot's in our room now."

"Oh?" She wrinkled her forehead. "Okay."

As Rose disappeared upstairs, he hoped she'd understand his decision. Originally, Justine had wanted to give Sherlock and Rose uninterrupted time together, since tonight was his first night back in their company since they'd all left London. But now he wanted that night of peace for Bob and Justine, since Bob had acquired a head injury and the pair had had to endure his brother's silly antics.

Mycroft's phone trilled with an alert. Turning to the front door, he said, "My driver."

"Yes," Sherlock said, heaving a sigh and reaching for the door handle. All his movements now felt wooden—forced. "I'll walk you out."

In the cool air of the front porch, the sky thickened by grey clouds, the brothers stopped for a moment.

"You wouldn't happen to have a cigarette on you?" Sherlock asked.

"What makes you think I do?"

"You always keep one for me… just in case."

Mycroft reached into his jacket pocket.

"Indeed I do," he said, producing two cigarettes and handing one to Sherlock. "But these are low tar."

"Of course they are."

"And I seemed to have misplaced my lighter. I suspect it was confiscated at Sherrinford."

"No matter."

Sherlock strolled along the side of the house, reached up and plucked a cigarette lighter from under the eaves. He lit his cigarette first, then Mycroft's.

The first drag burnt his throat and filled his lungs until they ached. And the light head spin was glorious.

"I didn't volunteer information about Sherrinford," Mycroft began after his first puff. "She started asking me questions."

"Yes. She does that."

"She's concerned about you, naturally."

"Mm."

"She wanted to make sure she knew enough in order to help you."

Sherlock took another drag in silence.

And how much did it benefit Mycroft to talk about their ordeal, Sherlock wondered. Good for him. He was sure his brother wouldn't have anybody to confide in otherwise. Although, there was Lady Smallwood. Something odd going on between them there. And wasn't she a former gymnast? A smile ghosted his lips at the thought.

When Sherlock heard the click of the door latch, his first instinct was to drop his cigarette hand and hide it behind his back. But it was John Watson who opened the door, not his mother.

"Oh, good. You haven't left yet," the doctor said to Mycroft as he stepped outside.

An uneasy smile plucked at the doctor's lips, and Sherlock wondered what was up.

"Just about to," Mycroft replied. "A lot more work to supervise at Sherrinford."

"Oh, yeah. How's that going?"

"Thankfully the security of the other inmates wasn't compromised. But we may use this as an opportunity to brighten up the paintwork."

"Uh, good," John responded, but Sherlock knew Mycroft's smile meant they'd do no such thing. His brother's idea of a little joke. Lightening the mood.

"So," John went on, and he cleared his throat. "We'll see you back in London... then? Maybe h-have you over… for dinner… or… something."

Mycroft blinked rapidly and Sherlock bit his bottom lip to prevent himself from rumbling out a laugh.

"I might see you at the pub," Mycroft offered dryly.

"Yeah. Okay…"

Seemingly lost for words, John nodded to Mycroft, shot a quick glance at Sherlock, and then disappeared inside the house.

Sherlock snorted out a laugh.

"What on earth was that?" Mycroft asked.

Once Sherlock had recomposed himself, he said, "I think that was his way of thanking you for offering to sacrifice your life for his."

"I'm sorry? Oh…  _that_. Well, yes. If that was the case, I think I rather prefer his usual casual animosity over whatever that was."

Sherlock sniggered again, but Mycroft's expression reset to factory defaults.

"It could've been most unfortunate had you not… erm…" his brother began.

Memories of Sherrinford kept resurfacing and threatening to pull him under. Yes,  _that other thing_. Sherlock offering to sacrifice  _his own_  life so neither his brother nor his best friend had to die by his hand. Had his brother enlightened Rose as to the outcome of that little challenge?

His skin prickled at the thought. Surely not.

"They would've felt your loss, of course," Mycroft added, indicating the house with his cigarette.

Sherlock hummed in agreement. Rose couldn't know he'd been prepared to die. Her demeanour didn't indicate she possessed such knowledge.

He had tried not to think about the effect his death may have had on her. He had made preparations for it, of course.  _Financial_  preparations. But how does one  _mentally_  prepare loved ones for your impending death?

He knew the ensuing silence meant that Mycroft was ruminating over something as well. Sherlock took a longer drag on his cigarette, just in case his brother was going to say something along the lines of, "And your loss would break my heart," as he had done last Christmas. Although, it was the effects of the spiked punch that had a lot to do with Mycroft delivering that little out of character seasonal gift.

"You know, Sherlock," Mycroft began, "sometimes a person enters into a relationship because they need something from their potential partners, whether they consciously know it or not."  _Oh God_ , Sherlock thought,  _here it comes._  "Obviously," Mycroft continued, oblivious to Sherlock's discomfort, "all those years ago you didn't set out to find a lifelong partner. It may have been sex that led you to her initially, but that's not what kept you."  _Oh, please stop._  "You needed somebody who could understand the intricacies of your mind… and… encourage the use of your heart."  _For Christ's sake!_  "Once upon a time, I thought that person was John Watson. But he could only get you so far, having needs of his own. Clearly, Rose is that person. And I was… I was… regrettably… wrong… about her."

Sherlock held out his cigarette and asked, "What have you got us smoking?"

"Sherlock."

Sherlock heaved out a sigh.

"I know, Mycroft," he said. Determined to steer the conversation as far away from himself  _and his needs_  as possible, he added, "You're not the first person to have a false impression about her."

"And clearly I'm not the last."

When Sherlock tilted his head questioningly, Mycroft added, "Her family?"

_Her family_. Sherlock felt Rose's burden settle on his shoulders. With all they knew about Rose, her family had never really supported her. She'd called her dad on the phone, she'd told Sherlock. And sorrow and disappointment had leeched from her voice.

"I… I think they've disowned her," he said.

"Ah."

They dragged in silence for a few more seconds as a tiny pattering of rain began to fall.

"She'll have her hands full with Mummy's attention, anyway," Mycroft remarked.

"Mm," Sherlock responded, in between puffs. "Not quite sure when to tell our parents about them.

Mycroft repositioned his stance, prompting Sherlock to sharpen his gaze upon his brother.

"This Friday," Mycroft said. "In London. After lunch."

"Sorry?"

"I've invited Rose, and Grace of course, to come to London to meet our parents."

Sherlock dropped the hand that held his cigarette.

"You did what?"

"I thought—"

"You want to hand our parents a grandchild after telling them their daughter's been locked up all these years?"

Mycroft forced something resembling a smile to his face. It was unconvincing.

"Not as crudely as you put it," he replied. "But yes, sometime during the afternoon. Rose said she'd be delighted to meet our parents and introduce Grace to her grandparents."

Sherlock exhaled heavily.

"Christ, Mycroft," he said, scratching the back of his head. "Is that really the best we can do?"

"Do you have an alternative?"

Sherlock bowed his head and watched the hypnotic swirls of his cigarette smoke. He didn't want to imagine the fallout from this little reveal. Both sons keeping secrets of a sizeable magnitude from their parents… his mother, in particular. A long lost daughter, still incarcerated. A secret granddaughter. The latter being a far more attractive prospect. Would Grace's presence really soften the blow of the truth about Eurus's existence?

He had no idea.

He gave a slow shake of his head in response to Mycroft's question.

"It's settled then," Mycroft replied. "You'll bring Rose and Grace to London with you at the end of the week. But you should know it's not just Grace's presence I'm counting on…"

_Of course_  there was more.

"With Rose's… expertise," Mycroft continued, "she could probably answer any questions our parents have about Eurus's state of mind. Use the appropriate terminology. They might not listen to me."

Sherlock furrowed his brow.

"You want Rose's professional opinion?"

"And why not? I hear she's quite the student in her current course. Mustn't let that talent go to waste."

Trust Mycroft to find Rose's utility. But let Rose near Eurus? Before or after he told her about Lisa? And besides, Eurus as Eurus was not someone to be trusted around loved ones. Sherlock had still not processed Eurus as Lisa meeting up with Rose throughout the year, and worse, seeing his daughter. Did Rose let Lisa hold their baby?

Sherlock's insides rippled with a quiet horror.

This was... complicated. Something he had to ponder alone. Not the right time to explain the whole Eurus-Lisa situation with his brother. But Eurus and Rose? That was not happening.

"As clever a student she may be," Sherlock told Mycroft, "Rose is barely qualified. I won't have her talking to Eurus."

"Rose won't be going anywhere near our sister," Mycroft responded, hooding his brow. "I'm going to provide her with files and recorded interviews from Sherrinford. She'll have the next few days to study them, if she so desires. All I'd like from her is an indication of Eurus's current psychosis extrapolated from the records and… recent events.

"Research and a deadline?" Past visions of Rose sitting at a table surrounded by books flitted through his mind.  _Your_ _books_ _—arrange them around you on the table_ _so you look busy and important_ , he had once said to her. An impatient Consulting Detective would usually loll about on her sofa, harrumphing at the telly. "Rose thrives on those," he added. His chest swelled a little at the thought of his clever girlfriend and her case studies.

The case she'd be studying, though. It didn't bear thinking about.

The corners of Mycroft's mouth twitched upwards.

"I'm pleased to hear that," he said, before dropping his cigarette onto the concrete. He crushed it beneath his heel, then swept it onto the pavers that were being splashed with raindrops. "I'd better get going," he finally remarked, "Before this gets any heavier." He gave Sherlock a sheepish smile. "And I'm without my umbrella."

Sherlock wearily returned his brother's smile, then followed him out into the light rainfall.

At the front gate, Sherlock entered the six-digit code to release the lock on the latch.

"I'll get my people to install a security system for you," Mycroft said, gesturing towards the house.

"We have a security system."

"Are you sure?" Mycroft asked, narrowing his eyes as he scanned the roofline.

"It's undetectable."

"It's also not working."

"It  _is_  working. We… we were just a bit distracted getting ready for our walk to really pay it any attention. Won't happen again."

Sherlock pulled open the gate. He noted the presence of Mycroft's car parked by the kerb and the driver hastily climbing out.

"Don't stay out in this weather too long," his brother said. "You'll catch your death. Especially in that outfit." He raked his eyes down Sherlock's attire. "Jeans," he said, wrinkling his nose a little. "Reminds me of your teenage years."

Mycroft then averted his gaze as if to acknowledge the driver who now stood holding the rear passenger door open. Sherlock knew that tell. Reminiscing about Sherlock's teenage years, and therefore the onset of his drug addition, wasn't a happy exercise. His late teen years and early twenties were particularly harrowing for the older Holmes sibling. He came to his junkie brother's aid on more than one occasion.

_And he continues to do so,_ Sherlock thought, a light tug on his heart for Mycroft.  _But in his own, sometimes misguided, way._

"Thank you," Sherlock said suddenly.

"For what?"

Sherlock reeled a little for his involuntary outpouring of sentiment.

"For… for coming to their rescue," he scrambled to add. "Wrong time, wrong place. Wrong… situation, admittedly, but I appreciate the sentiment all the same."

Mycroft nodded in acknowledgement, then headed for the kerb.

"London, then, Sherlock," Mycroft Holmes bid his brother, before turning and climbing into the vehicle.

* * *

Sherlock unthreaded his fingers from Rose's as they entered the kitchen. John stood at the fridge, depositing Rosie's bottles of formula inside.

"Mycroft gone?" he asked, looking round.

"Yes," Sherlock replied, placing the baby monitor onto the counter as Rose crossed the room to fill the kettle.

"Is he all right? I mean…" John paused to clear his throat. "… with everything that happened in Sherrinford."

"Yes, he'll be fine, I suspect," Sherlock replied, leaning back against the kitchen counter and folding his arms in front of him. "It's made him a bit trigger-happy as you saw, but I'm sure he'll be back to his usual self in no time, wielding nothing more lethal than a CCTV camera."

"Huh," John said.

"Tea, John?" Rose asked.

"Yeah, sure, thanks."

"And how are you?" Rose asked. "How's Rosie? She sleeping okay upstairs?" She glanced at John as she retrieved mugs from the overhead cupboard.

As Rose and John began discussing infant sleep times, Sherlock left the counter to grab milk from the fridge. He felt a pang of guilt for disturbing Rose's late afternoon rest time when he entered the bedroom after Mycroft had left. She had been propped up by pillows and not at all sleeping, holding Grace to her chest. After Sherlock had moved Grace to the travel cot, Rose decided to get up so she and Sherlock could "have a talk" downstairs. All he had wanted to do was lie down next to Rose, let his torments be eased by her brow-soothing, the specifics of those torments irrelevant because she'd glean his needs via osmosis rather than conversation.

With John's presence in the kitchen, it looked like the talk wasn't going to eventuate any time soon. Sherlock was fine with that. But he did want to spend time with Rose, alone, eventually.

She finished making the three cups of tea, and they all drifted to the dining table, where they sat with their mugs and an unopened packet of ginger nut biscuits.

Sherlock sat at one end, his mood rapidly taking a dive the further the conversation veered into the trivial. Because he wasn't interested in contributing to the topic under discussion, he wandered aimlessly through his Mind Palace. And it wasn't a pleasant jaunt.

John sat to his left, his back to the large picture window that overlooked the garden, while Rose sat on Sherlock's right, across from John. Sherlock idly rotated his mug of tea.

"…and now there's an ongoing dispute between the neighbours on three sides, all because of the bloody bins," John finished with a chuckle.

When Rose emitted a light laugh, it became obvious that Sherlock wasn't on the same page as his two companions. He felt the silence pressing in on him as as two pairs of eyes rested on him. Rose reached for him, covering his hand with hers.

John gave a light cough, before averting his gaze. He reached for his mug.

The warmth that drizzled through Sherlock provided by Rose's hand was at odds with his former flatmate's close proximity, so he discreetly tried to pull his hand away.

John swiftly drained his mug and set it on the table with an audible plonk.

"Ah, nice cuppa that," he said, suddenly rising.

Rose drew her cup towards her and straightened up.

"Yes, it is," she said, before taking a sip herself.

Sherlock stared fixedly at the packet of ginger nuts, his heart stuttering. He could feel Rose's disappointment in him radiating from her in waves.

"So, I... um..." John began. He drummed his fingers on the table.

Sherlock lifted his gaze, but stretched out a leg, seeking Rose's underneath the table. When he felt it, he pressed his against hers in a gesture of contrition. Of hope.

"Ah... we're just about out of nappies," John eventually stammered out.

"Oh..." Rose responded. Her leg pressed back against Sherlock's and he breathed easier once more.

"So... I'll just pop off to the shops," John continued. "I miscalculated when I was packing, obviously..."

"Yes, sorry," Rose said. "I think Grace's will be too small."

"Newborn size?" John asked, pushing in his chair and coming out from behind the table. "Yes, just a bit."

Sherlock withdrew his leg.

"But you can't go out in this," Rose told John, gesturing through the picture window at the downpour.

"Take the car," Sherlock volunteered, finding his voice at last. He gave John a tiny smile for good measure.

"You sure?"

"The keys are on the entrance table."

John drew in a quick breath and said, "Yeah, okay, if you're sure. Thanks."

He made it halfway across the kitchen, when he turned and asked, "How about I pick up something for dinner as well?"

"That will be lovely," Rose replied, twisting around in her seat.

"Any... preferences?" John asked.

"How about..." Rose began, before gazing around thoughtfully. "… something healthy?"

"… Chips," Sherlock added, almost simultaneously.

John smiled at the contradictory options.

"Fish and chips with salad?" he offered.

"Good choice," Sherlock said, faking amiability and interest simultaneously. "There's a nice little place just three doors down from the Waitrose."

"And Justine will be happy with those options," Rose added, rising from the table herself.

John turned away, saying "Fish and chips with salad it is, then." His over-enthusiasm caused a knot in Sherlock's stomach. Three people faking happiness. Perhaps they should all have a talk.

Well, Rose wasn't faking, really. She was accommodating everyone at the moment. Good for her.

After John had left, Rose gathered the two empty mugs and took them over to the sink. Sherlock gulped down the rest of his tea and joined her. Her pull on him was magnetic. Upon rinsing the first two, she turned and held out her hand for Sherlock's mug.

"I'm sorry," he said, handing her the mug and trying on a smile for size. It didn't quite fit at the edges. "All my worlds colliding," he continued, the words seeming to come without effort. But these ones only skimmed the surface of the deep waters currently drowning his emotions. "Having Mycroft talk about you and Grace without a hint of… disappointment in his voice—it's a bit… off. Can't really grasp that. And John..."

He didn't know what to say there. Usually John and Mary were joined at the hip, and Sherlock sat alone. This was an odd reversal of roles.

"Don't worry about it," she said, her soft voice taking the edge off his jagged thoughts. "It'll take some time for us all to get used to this."

Rose finished washing the dishes. As she dried her hands on a tea towel, she added, "We'll talk when you're ready. I don't want to push you. Just let me know what you want when you want it."

His heart fluttered. Rose was his anchor in a sea of never-ending nightmares. Sherlock waited until Rose had hung up the tea towel and was able to give him her full attention.

"I don't know if I want to be left alone," he told her, his voice tight, "or if I want to be alone with just you."

Her brows arched in sympathy and she reached for his hands.

"If you want me to sit with you in silence," she said, "I won't mind that."

"I'm not talking about sitting together."

He hoped the intensity of his gaze would speak the rest of his thoughts for him.

When a smile lingered on Rose's lips, he knew she understood. She drew him nearer, tilted her head, expectation lighting her face.

Sherlock banded his arms around her and ducked his head, meeting her lips in a kiss that was soft, yet giving. Her mouth was patient and loving, her taste a welcome sweetness. When their lips parted, Sherlock drew from her what he needed in that moment, trading desire for hunger.

He didn't know if Rose sensed the urgency within his kiss, but she drew back, keeping her arms around his shoulders.

"It's too bad every bedroom is occupied," she whispered against his lips, a specific kind of gleam in her eye.

"Since when do we require a bed?" Sherlock countered in a voice ragged in need.

Their mouths met again in a fierce, urgent kiss. It ran deep, drizzling longing and desire throughout Sherlock's body. He could take her where they stood. He ached for a quick release, to collapse on the other side, freeing all his emotions.

Rose's hands drifted to his nape, her fingers threading through his curls. Sherlock backed Rose against the kitchen counter, grinding his pelvis into hers. The pressure there was an exquisite kind of torture. As their tongues twined and tasted, he hungered for her to touch him, take control, let him reach his peak as urgently as poss—

"Does that gate open automat—"

A stream of curses.

_John_.

They broke off abruptly. Rose looked beyond him, but Sherlock saw nobody when he turned his head towards the doorway. He gathered his thoughts and called towards retreating footfalls, "The button's in the glove compartment."

There was no response, until eventually, the front door clicked shut.

Sherlock released his breath, his heart pounding in his chest. Rose, lips swollen and face flushed with desire, chuckled lightly.

"Now where is this bed-less room you speak of?" she asked.


	116. We're Going to Have to Give Her Hope

His breathing, slow and deep, against the constant patter of rain outside, were the only sounds to compete with the buzzing inside his brain. As Rose's tongue lathed so expertly, Sherlock threaded his hands through her hair.

The need and hunger welled up inside him and he let out a long, shuddering sigh, dropping his head back against the door, his eyelids fluttering to a close.

Her tongue teased in a leisurely, seductive fashion. Her soft mouth held him with a gentle firmness, just enough to ease the ragged edges of his desire. Her free hand roamed, gently, lightly skimming his thigh before cupping him, massaging him there. The air hummed around them. The rain outside may have settled into a constant drizzle, but the storm inside him slowly built.

Rose's mouth moved avidly. She intermittently trailed her tongue, leaving delicious pulsing aches in its wake. Sherlock knew the pleasure would end all too soon for him, but he had done nothing for her. She hadn't allowed him to. He had needed all of her, but she had given him this instead, taking nothing for herself.

Another erotic slide of her tongue, and a bolt of heat shot through him. He let out a long grateful moan. He was deep inside and the pressure was glorious. His breath grew unsteady, his pulse rate accelerating.

Recent events had scorched his soul, but she had resurrected it from the ashes, lighting fires everywhere else. All he had was Rose to cling to while the world swayed beneath his feet. She was his reality, his anchor, his rock.

Heat shimmered over Sherlock's skin, and he let the soft strand of hair fall through his fingers. They drifted over her nape, skimming the bare skin there. Beyond that, out of reach, her pale skin dipped and rose in curves of lusciousness. Firm and smooth and erotic. He knew every inch of her, her texture, taste and fragrance. He looked down at her, longing to hold her, bury himself in her, run his tongue over her, into her, to incite an insatiable need within her. Should he tell her to stop? But her mouth was so eager and warm and generous, he wanted this selfish pleasure to go on forever.

Rose drew him in, and released him, over and again, until his breath caught just as often, expelling in primitive bursts. Sherlock rocked his hips a little, urging her, silently pleading with her, as blood thundered through his head.

" _Rose_."

It was a desperate murmur, a plea and a surrender, all in one. She was undoing the knots, unravelling him, until his head spun, his heart stuttered and his loins throbbed with a blissful ache.

He clutched ineffectually at the back of her head. Rose answered each desperate demand and urgent moan that escaped his lips. Sherlock's pulse raced erratically and his body quivered. Every muscle coiled in readiness. Rose's hand gripped his hip. A new determination drove her. She pulled him to the brink where emotion replaced reason. His breath caught as sensations built, rocketed to their peak and swamped him. He shuddered over the precipice. Free falling.

Sherlock's fingers dug into Rose's shoulder. His head fell back against the door. Pleasure pulsated and lashed through him. A moan escaped. A curse highjacked a gasp. His breath was quick and laboured. She drew from him. Consumed him. He gave until nothing was left.

The air stilled. His chest rose and fell rapidly. His eyes had squeezed shut, and when he opened them to slits, the laundry appeared, dark geometric shapes in the evening gloom. His head felt light and he was only vaguely aware of Rose rising from her knees.

The rain pattered on.

Rose's arms encircled him.

"Just let me hug you," she whispered.

* * *

Rose gathered up her hair into a pony-tail and left the downstairs bathroom to join Sherlock in the living room.

"That's a bit formal," she said, her expression brightening at the presence of a tea pot, tea cups and saucers on a tray, instead of the mugs and tea bags they'd usually share. "And just before dinner?"

Sherlock gave her a grim smile as she sat down on the sofa beside him.

"I have something I need to tell you," he said.

He was going to open up to her now? She thought he'd go to pieces after his orgasm, given the pent up emotions that led to her performing oral sex on him in the laundry in the first place, but he'd hugged her back in silence, eased out of her embrace, awkwardly thanked her and then they'd both quietly dressed. Perhaps he'd been holding on to his emotions… until such time as… when? When they had a full tea service set out before them? But wasn't John due back from the shops any minute now?

Still, his rounded eyes signalled something else entirely. It was the kind of look—the tiny arch of his brows—that he'd give her when  _she_  was emotionally distraught about something. His empathetic expression. That's what it was.

Rose's stomach dropped. For fuck's sake. What was he about to tell her?

"I've already taken the liberty of pouring your tea," he said, quickly redirecting his gaze to the coffee table.

"Sherlock," Rose began, not knowing what she was going to say.

Through the open door from the entranceway, Justine strode in, her expression a taut smile, and she lightly clasped her hands together.

"Oh, you  _are_  here," she said, as both Rose and Sherlock looked up. "I thought you'd gone out. When I came down earlier there was no one about."

Rose felt a warmth spread across her cheeks.

"Oh, we… we were…" Rose began, struggling to come up with an excuse.

"John's getting dinner," Sherlock said, talking over her.

"There's no easy way to say this," Justine went on, as if neither of them had spoken. "Bob's upset. He feels as if he's let you down, and he wants to retire. Properly this time. And I have to support him in this."

Rose's chest tightened and her head buzzed. Beside her, Sherlock straightened in his seat.

"Justine," he said.

"I know what you're going to say," she interrupted him, wringing her hands. "We have thought long and hard about this. It's for the best. We'll give you a month's notice and I hope you think that's fair. We'll leave before Christmas so we can spend it with our family, if that's all right."

Rose felt as if she'd been slapped. She gaped a little, in mute shock.

Leaving? To spend Christmas with  _our family_? But… weren't they… weren't  _we_   _all_ …  _family_?

Sherlock left the sofa, prompting Rose to stand as well.

"Justine, just hear me out," Sherlock tried again. "It's not entirely Bob's fault. I didn't even notice myself—"

"It's not very professional of us," Justine replied. "There's no excuse for not being more thorough. It could've been a lot worse. And there were babies…"

"It's Mycroft's fault!" Rose burst out. "Nothing like this would normally happen!" Tears pressed against her eyes. She couldn't believe this. Bob blamed himself? And now they wanted to leave, as if Rose and Sherlock  _and Grace_ didn't matter to them anymore.

"A month's notice—we think that's fair," Justine said, her expression tightening. She kept her eyes on Sherlock's. "I'll leave you to think about the details. I don't want to go back and forth with arguments. We've already made up our minds." Her eyes flickered to Rose, but she didn't hold her gaze. Lifting her chin, Justine said finally, "Please respect our wishes."

She turned on her heel and left the room, while Rose groped for her voice.

"Sherlock," she said, as her eyes brimmed with tears. She swallowed the sob that had risen in her throat. "Do something."

Sherlock reached for her, but didn't draw Rose into a hug. He rubbed at her arms and eyed her carefully.

"I know it sounds harsh," he said, "but they are right."

"What!"

"I employed them to protect you. You and Grace."

Rose pulled away from Sherlock, her brow furrowed.

"Don't—"

"They made a mistake," he continued, "but so did I. It's not something I'd fire them over. I trust them completely." There was a hint of a smile around his mouth, which confused Rose. "Justine wanted to leave us to think about the finer details. She's forgetting how fast my brain can process problems like this."

Rose tutted, stifling an eyeroll.

"So, how about this," Sherlock said.

He suggested they let Justine and Bob leave immediately for Blackpool. He'd continue to pay them. Holiday pay. The stress of their impending departure wouldn't make for a pleasant atmosphere around the house for the next month anyway and clearly they could do with a long break. Rose quirked an interested brow at Sherlock's unusually sharp assessment regarding other people and relationships.

"They can spend the remainder of the year and Christmas in Blackpool," he said, "and then, early in the new year, we'll see how they feel about retirement. They tried to retire before. Soon after our… operation. Both out of their minds with boredom. Jumped at the chance to work for me. You'll see. They'll be back before Grace is out of nappies."

"That's…" Rose stammered, her mind momentarily distracted by Sherlock mentioning their "operation". "That's… a long time away," she finished.

"You know what I mean," Sherlock replied, his eyes sparkling a little.

Rose had to admit his plan had its merits. She felt only marginally better. Rejection still tapped her on the shoulder, though. An all too familiar dance partner these days.

"So, I'll just go up and tell them," he said, turning for the door.

"Sherlock… wait."

"What?"

Pointing to the tea service, Rose asked, "Is that what this was for? Did you know what Justine and Bob had decided?"

"No," he replied, his shoulders drooping a little.

"So you have something else to tell me."

"Well, now isn't a good time," he said, gesturing between Rose and the tea.

"Are you going to wait until I'm feeling happy and then tell me?"

He gave her a crooked smile.

"Not a good plan?"

Rose rounded the table and sank onto the sofa once more.

"Tell me now," she said with a sigh. "How can this day get any worse?"

Sherlock scrubbed at his scalp and crossed the floor towards her. Heaving out a sigh of his own, he sat down beside her.

"I'm sorry," he said, his voice dropping a couple of notches. Reaching for Rose's hand, he added, "What I'm about to tell you isn't pleasant."

Rose's insides twisted. Sherlock would happily tell her about a serial killer, or how he'd acquired a matching pair of eyeballs from the mortuary. A subject that he also found unpleasant? She dreaded to think what it could be.

"You know about my sister and her many disguises," he began. When Rose nodded, he went on. "She was John's therapist, although Mrs Hudson and I interrupted his first session. And she shot him during their second session, but other than that, he thought she was pretty good. Then there was Culverton Smith's daughter, Faith. She showed up as a client. Her information led me to expose the monster behind the philanthropist. John also flirted with a version of her on one of his many commutes… exchanged text messages with her. I'm not sure how harmless they were."

Rose furrowed her brow, wondering where Sherlock was going with this.

"Her motivation for all these disguises was never made clear," he continued. "Perhaps she wanted to see how close she could get to me, observe how I worked, how my relationships with others withstood tests. Maybe it was all a game, culminating in the challenges we faced in Sherrinford. I don't know."

When he dropped his gaze to their clasped hands and rubbed his thumb across the back of Rose's, her mouth ran dry.

"Rose, I'm sorry to have to tell you this," he said, lifting his gaze, "but I'm sure Eurus befriended you, disguised as someone else."

Rose's heartbeat echoed in her ears.  _Befriended_  her? Eurus had entered  _her_  life, too? She blinked, suddenly finding it hard to maintain eye contact with Sherlock. She cast around for something tangible to help her understand. How could part of his sister's game-playing include Rose? She parted her lips to protest automatically. What he was saying sounded… far-fetched… ludicrous, even.

"I'm sure…" she said faltering, her mind failing to catch on, "I'm sure I'd notice if… if…"

People flitted in and out of her life all the time. Extended family, friends of friends, mother's group members, ex-workmates, clients, classmates, lecturers… the list was endless. So what if she once bumped into Sherlock's sister in one of her many disguises? Another face in a sea of faces. But if she was a  _friend_ … someone Rose spent a bit of time with…  _Oh God._  Her stomach clenched and unclenched. Of course she'd know if someone wasn't who they said they were… wouldn't she?

Rose slowly eased her hand from Sherlock's.

"Rose," Sherlock said gently. "I'm quite sure she was Lisa."

The name hit her like a punch in the gut.

_Lisa?_

Lisa's image flitted through Rose's mind—a blurry montage of their tutoring sessions, coffee outings, and finally, Lisa visiting in hospital after Grace was born. She could feel the blood leeching from her face. But this wasn't right.

"No," she said, her voice straining. Rose shook her head. "I've known her for ages."

"I think she's been capable of leaving Sherrinford for a while."

"We've been friends all year."

"Yes."

That he agreed with her so emphatically threw Rose. Her statement was meant to refute his claim.

Rose reached across the coffee table for her iPad. This was utter nonsense.

"She's a student at Napier," she said, furiously swiping at her screen and bringing up the tutoring website in her browser. "Well, she was, until she transferred to Liverpool. And out of all my friends, I don't know why you've picked out Lisa."

"It was a couple of things you said, and… Eurus… mentioned," Sherlock replied, but Rose still didn't want to entertain the thought. As he started recounting random anecdotes she may have told him once (who could remember these things?) she found her profile on the site, then navigated to the students with whom she had communicated.

"Here."

Rose thrust her iPad into Sherlock's hand. In the window was Lisa's profile, one the mature age student would've created in order to gain access to lists of student tutors available at Edinburgh Napier University, of which Rose was one.

Rose waited while Sherlock studied the screen.

"Is that her?" she prompted. "Is that your sister?"

Sherlock frowned.

"Bit hard to tell," he said. "A low-res image blown up to fit the minimum size requirements. Jaw-line could be hers. Same shape. Obviously wearing a wig. But that's a very poor photo."

It was. Rose could see that now. Because she recognised Lisa from the fuzzy image, she thought Sherlock would be able to pick out his sister. Curious about the wig, though. Rose always thought Lisa's thick red locks were too thick, too… luxurious.

"I started tutoring her in the first trimester," she told Sherlock. "Before you even visited me."

"Yes, but—"

"So how did Eurus know about me that long ago? You and I weren't even together!"

"I think she watched me long before she made any appearance. I'm quite sure she was behind the 'Miss Me' broadcast on New Year's Day to bring me back to London. If she had me under surveillance since I returned—proper surveillance, not that half-arsed rubbish Mycroft relied on—she would've found out about you. I think she's been leaving Sherrinford on a regular basis. She would've been studying what makes people tick, how ordinary people lived their lives, for quite some time. Perhaps from the safety of Sherrinford first, but eventually, she would've planned her first excursion."

Sherlock placed the iPad back onto the coffee table, then reached for Rose's hand once more.

"I don't think she meant you any harm," he said.

"Then what did she want?"

"To get close to someone who was important to me. But what she got was a… a friend." He shrugged and shook his head lightly. "I'm not sure if that was her original intention, but she was obsessed with having a friend of her own. Since childhood. I don't think she's capable of true friendship. Probably never was. Perhaps she just enjoyed the role playing."

Rose's cheeks burnt. That Lisa—Eurus— _pretended_  to be her friend stung. She still couldn't believe it.

Sherlock gave her hand a squeeze.

"You said Lisa kept visiting her son in Liverpool. Perhaps she was returning to Sherrinford during those times." When Rose said nothing, Sherlock added, "I'm… sorry."

Rose looked away, her mind in a whirl.

In the entranceway, the front door clicked shut, and footsteps approached the living area. Rose wiped at her eyes.

"Three kinds of salad," John Watson said matter-of-factly, the rustle of plastic shopping bags accompanying him. Rose turned to look at him, forcing a smile to her face. "Just in ca…"

Who was she kidding. Her eyes were obviously glistening with unshed tears. John clamped his jaw shut.

"I… I keep interrupting you two, don't I?" he asked.

"It's okay, John," Rose said, at the same time Sherlock replied, "It's fine."

"I was just telling Rose about Eurus and her disguises," Sherlock explained.

"Oh… right," John said, ambling further into the room, holding grocery bags in both hands. His eyes were drawn to the iPad on the coffee table and deep creases formed in his brow. He inched forward and stopped behind the sofa. "That's… that's… Elisabeth."

Rose's head buzzed. She slowly reached for the iPad and held it out to John.

"Yes, that's Lisa, my… friend. She hates being called Elisabeth." She sighed and murmured, "Hated." Now she had to qualify her statements. As if Lisa had passed. Died.

John placed one bag on the floor and accepted the device from Rose, his mouth slightly agape.

"Ah," said Sherlock. "The woman John texted. Looks like Eurus re-used the same disguise."

Rose's stomach dropped. Was this confirmation that Sherlock's guess about Lisa was correct? If they had already confirmed John's texting partner was really Eurus, and John identified her from Lisa's profile photo, then...

It was a stab to the heart.

Lisa wasn't actually her friend. She didn't exist. Rose's mind filled with white noise. She only faintly heard John saying, "Edinburgh, huh? Well, she did have a…  _ahem_ … a Scottish accent."

He held out the iPad, but she didn't take it back. Sherlock took it on her behalf and set it down on the coffee table. The men exchanged a handful of remarks, none of which Rose listened to. She only heard the dull thuds of her heartbeat. John finally made excuses about serving up dinner, leaving her and Sherlock alone.

"Are you—" he began.

Rose stood up.

"I just need a minute. Alone."

"Rose," he said, also standing.

At that moment, the baby monitor on the coffee table burst into life.  _Rosie._

Both bedroom doors had been left slightly ajar while the babies slept, with the baby unit monitor on the floor between the rooms, so they'd hear if either infant awoke. Of course, there was also the chance that one would wake the other.

"I'll go," Rose said, immediately making for the door.

* * *

Tired and very dishevelled, Rose pulled on her dressing gown. Her limbs felt heavy. She could've slept for a week. Even though she'd gone to bed early, after a very subdued dinner—made only slightly interesting by the distractions of Rosie and Grace—Rose had little sleep. She insisted on feeding Grace when she woke at 10:12pm, 2:57am and 5:30am, even though Sherlock had offered to walk around with her and even lie on the living room sofa with her. Rose wouldn't have it.

But now it was just before nine. Grace had woken, Sherlock had changed her nappy and had informed Rose that the Wilsons were leaving.

"Are you sure you want to come down?" Sherlock asked, as Rose yawned widely. "I can tell them you're still asleep."

"Surely I can at least say goodbye," she retorted, her voice still rough from sleep.  _Even if I'm not allowed to speak to them_ , she thought, fuming.

She heard Sherlock sigh behind her as they left the bedroom together.

Rose knew she was taking it out on him. It wasn't his fault Justine didn't want to talk to her. Sherlock had delivered dinner to the couple the previous evening and later informed Rose that they had accepted his suggestion to leave for Blackpool for an extended break, rather than give a month's notice. Though adamant they wouldn't change their mind about retiring, they agreed to touch base again in the new year.

Rose quickly ran her hands through her hair before she rounded the staircase. Bob and Justine were standing by the front door.

"Taxi's here," Justine said, looking up as the family of three descended. Rose noted that Justine had directed her gaze above her head, presumably to address Sherlock, rather than Rose.

As Bob was nearest the bottom of the stairs, Rose drew him into a hug first.

"Bob," she said. The big man enveloped her in a bear hug. "Have a lovely Christmas," she said, "and we'll see you in the new year." Then she added in a trembled whisper, "I love you both."

Bob tightened his hold, squeezing the life out of her.

"You, too, love," he choked.

Justine, however, gave Rose a very perfunctory hug. Rose only had time to gush out a, "Have a wonderful Christmas with your family," before Justine had already pulled away to pat Sherlock on the arm and rub Grace's back.

"Look after them," she said to Sherlock, her mouth set in a thin line. "Bob?"

In a blink, they were gone. As the door clicked shut, Rose's heart felt heavy, but she tried to remain unaffected by Justine's behaviour, keeping in mind the words Sherlock spoke to her in the early hours.

While Rose had been feeding Grace in bed around three, and Sherlock was trying to doze beside her, Rose had voiced her concern about Justine directing her words to Sherlock only that evening.

"She's distancing herself from you," he murmured into the pillow.

"What?"

Sherlock rolled to his back, laced his hands across his stomach and looked up at Rose, who sat propped up against her pillows as she fed Grace.

"It's what she does—what they  _have_  to do—when moving from one assignment to another. Especially if they were deep undercover and formed… attachments… to the people around them. It's… it's… dangerous if they don't emotionally distance themselves."

"But I'm not an…"  _assignment_ , she thought.

But of course she was, wasn't she? Who was she kidding. Sherlock had hired Bob and Justine to be her security, with a bit of gardening and babysitting thrown in as a bonus.

Sherlock hadn't said anymore, and she was stunned when he suddenly sat up, swung his legs to the ground and declared his need for a cigarette.

The realisation didn't hit her until she had settled Grace and slid under the quilt herself, alone.

… Undercover… forming attachments… danger…

_Oh, Sherlock,_  Rose thought. He had probably triggered the memory of the widow in that village in Poland, the woman who'd had her throat slit when Sherlock had hesitated in taking a shot.

Rose battled with her conscience over going downstairs and finding him, but she decided he'd be horrified if he knew Justine had told her details of his time abroad.

He must've returned to bed eventually, after Rose had fallen asleep waiting for him, because he was in the bedroom for Grace when she woke at dawn.

Now that Justine and Bob had left, the house felt strangely empty.

"Tea?" Sherlock asked, beckoning Rose towards the kitchen where she heard Rosie babbling to John.

"No, I think I'll go back to bed," Rose replied with a sigh, and drawing her dressing gown tighter around herself. "Wake me when Grace needs feeding again."

She spent the better part of the day half-sleeping, in between feeding her daughter. Being awake meant she'd think about the Wilsons and Lisa. She had pushed the realities of both losses to the periphery of her mind.

In the early afternoon, Sherlock entered the bedroom, attempting to stealthily tuck Grace into her cot. Rose shifted so he'd know she was awake. He grinned broadly at her, then made his way over to the bed.

Leaning over her, he planted a kiss on her forehead.

"Would you like lunch?" he asked in a low rumble. "There's some of that soup Justine made. I daresay you'll be the only one who'll eat it."

At the mention of Justine's name, Rose's eyes pooled with tears.

Sherlock tutted and screwed his eyes shut.

"Stupid, stupid," he admonished himself with a shake of his head. "It'll be fine," he said eventually. He layered a few more kisses to her face, murmuring, "You'll see… they'll be back before you know it."

He sat back and regarded Rose for a moment, before his mouth eased into a smile again.

"I'm running you a bath," he said, "Though I'd like to join you in it… can't really… John… bit awkward. But he'll be leaving soon, so you'll have to put up with my conversation for the next couple of days. I'll have to warn you though," he said, leaning forward again, "there'll be a bit of this…" He paused to press a light kiss behind her ear lobe. "And a bit of this…" This time, Sherlock brushed his lips over hers. "And much more besides," he murmured against her mouth. "A few more rooms in the house to explore."

Rose banded her arms around his neck, not wanting him to leave just yet. She wasn't feeling the least bit aroused, but she did crave his attention and affection.

"Thank you," she whispered.

With a wink, Sherlock left her in peace. He returned fifteen minutes later to signal that the bath was ready.

As she sank below the sudsy surface, she asked Sherlock when John was leaving and was stunned to discover he'd already departed. He had wanted to get to the airport early, Sherlock told her, to time Rosie's afternoon sleep for the cab ride.

"He said he'll see you in London on the weekend, anyway."

Rose didn't spend too long in the bath, much to Sherlock's disappointment. She suddenly had a lot of chores to attend to, and went about busying herself with it all, while not thinking about the many things Justine did about the place.

Sherlock planted himself in front of his laptop, intermittently with Grace in his lap, explaining to his newborn baby the rudiments of deductive reasoning while he solved email cases. If Rose had been in a lighter mood, she may have sat with them to soak up these moments between father and daughter, but she couldn't. She felt sick to her stomach whenever she stopped to think and feel.

Exhausted, they both decided they couldn't eat dinner, but later munched on toast and jam. At one stage during the evening, Sherlock disappeared and Rose found him smoking on the balcony outside Bob and Justine's sitting room.

"We'll have to do something about your smoking habit," was the only comment Rose made.

With Grace back in the nursery, Rose anticipated a night of luxurious love-making. But she and Sherlock lay side by side, fingers entwined, staring at the ceiling, for neither of them wanted to enter into any conversation that could potentially upset the other partner. Sherlock turned to his side, kissed her temple and remained there, as if he was about to tell her something.

They both fell asleep.

Sometime during the night, Grace stirred and needed tending to. This happened twice more, and zombie-like, Sherlock and Rose did what they had to.

At some stage, Rose murmured, "We need a fan…. or an old radio."

Sherlock hummed in disinterest.

The next day dawned with a message from Mycroft. A package would be arriving for them, it said. Within five minutes, said package turned up at the doorstep. It was a shiny new laptop for Rose. Encrypted and password-protected, it contained files and video footage concerning Eurus Holmes.

Rose parked herself on the sofa, a pot of tea by her side. She skimmed through a handful of files and watched a few of the videos. Sherlock concerned himself with yelling into the phone at his brother because he wasn't happy with the next lot of packages that were due to arrive in the form of a van full of communications experts who were going to re-do their wifi and phone system.

When the van turned up within the hour, Sherlock wouldn't let them inside.

"Just let them do their thing," Rose said, resignedly. "If I need to email Mycroft from here, then we have to make sure the lines are secure."

Sherlock finally acquiesced, but monitored the comms guys closely. When he discovered one trying to install a micro camera in one corner of the entranceway, he snatched it from him and flushed it down the toilet.

"That's the only place my brother gets to monitor!" he snarled.

The rest of the evening consisted of Sherlock climbing over and peering underneath every piece of furniture to double-check what these so-called communications experts had done. As he passed by Rose, she slammed down the lid of the laptop and said, "I can't watch anymore. I know she's your sister, but I…"

Sherlock's frantic search for hidden cameras came to a halt, and he held her for a long while. Rose couldn't maintain a professional attitude when it came to Eurus. Not right now. Her feelings about Lisa were still too raw.

"Let's turn in early," Sherlock said. "We've got a big day tomorrow."

Yes.

Travelling back to London.

Meeting the parents.

Rose shuddered and clung to Sherlock.

"Make love to me, tonight," she whispered.

"I fully intend to," he replied. Straightening up, a curious glint in his eye, he added, "How about we have sex in every other room? That'll get my brother to switch off the cameras, if I've missed any."

Rose furrowed her brow.

"No. I expect to be in our bedroom, on a comfortable mattress, with Sherlock Holmes doing wicked things to me."

Sherlock pulled her close and rumbled a deliciously evil laugh in her ear.

"Perhaps that was my plan all along?"

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The credits list the lady on the bus's name as "Elizabeth" in The Six Thatchers but I've taken liberties by changing the spelling to "Elisabeth". I've never wanted to give a physical description of Lisa, in case it was too obvious that I was also describing "E" from the bus. The only clue that they may have been one and the same was the Scottish accent!


	117. Happy Families

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are a few flashbacks in this chapter written in italics. I hope it's not too hard on the eyes. There's quite a bit of it. I had fun writing it and I hope you enjoy reading it!

 

Sherlock surveyed his living room once more, dust settling with the cremated remains of pages containing serial killer curriculum vitae of yesteryear and volumes upon volumes of poisons for fun and profit.  _Surely it_ _was_ _safe to go down now_. Nobody had been sent up to fetch him, so he imagined afternoon tea in Mrs Hudson's sitting room was progressing happily, and his mother hadn't turned absolutely monstrous.

Standing amongst the rubble of blackened books, scorched music sheets and chargrilled insect carcasses, he rebuttoned his jacket and fixed his shirt cuffs. He directed his gaze towards the soot-covered wall above the fireplace and imagined his image reflected in the mirror that ought to have hung there.

 _Right, then. Into battle_.

Reaching the bottom step, he was greeted by the unmistakeable sound of an owl in its last death throes. His landlady was obviously regaling her guests with amusing anecdotes about Florida that only loosely related to the topic under discussion.

Sherlock paused in the hallway and hung his head.

Why did this have to be a thing? Why couldn't they fast forward to next week, where everyone knew everything and everybody was fine with that?

_Because people are idiots._

With that final thought, Sherlock made for the entrance to the sitting room.

"—just like him when he's bored!" Mrs Hudson finished exclaiming.

The scene before him wasn't as awful as Sherlock expected it to be. His parents sat on the landlady's settee, his mother cradling Grace. Mrs Hudson hovered nearby with a camera. Everyone was looking at the baby girl. And why not? She was exquisite.

Except...

Rose sat in front of the fireplace, in the armchair Mrs Hudson usually reserved for knitting and binge-watching the latest season of Outlandish, or whatever it was—that Scottish Highlander nonsense. Rose's eyes had narrowed upon Sherlock's arrival and her hands were curled together in her lap.

A bit not good.

"Ah," he said, addressing the non-frowny people. "So... you've all met one another. Excellent."

"Oh, Sherlock," Mrs Hudson said. "What were you doing up there?"

"There you are," his mother announced, in case he'd forgotten where he was standing and needed some direction.

"I was just telling your mother how much Grace looks like you when she yawns," Mrs Hudson said.

Rose vacated the armchair, saying, "Here, Mrs Hudson, please have your seat back." Making a beeline towards Sherlock, she added, "I'm just going to get Sherlock a tea cup, so he can join us."

While Sherlock was growing a fake smile on his face, Rose grabbed him by the shirt cuff and half-dragged, half-escorted him into the kitchen.

This was definitely a  _lot_  not good.

Rose whirled around and demanded, "Well? You heard Mrs Hudson. What were you doing up there?"

"I was... checking... stuff..."

"I had to introduce myself to your parents without you!"

"Looks like all went well."

Sherlock completed the smile he'd started earlier, however it didn't have the desired effect on Rose.

"They didn't have a clue who I was!" she said, her eyes blazing. "Your mum handed me her coat!"

_"Oh, this old thing. Don't bother hanging it up. Just toss it onto the chair or in the fireplace. Now where's Martha?"_

"I had to say who I was several times, Sherlock."

_"Please don't worry about her," Mr Holmes said, indicating Mrs Holmes who had just found Mrs Hudson in the kitchen. As he handed over his own coat, he added, "Just heard some bad news, I'm afraid. She needs a cup of tea and a good natter. I had no idea Martha had a helper? Here for the holidays?"_

_"No... I'm..." Rose paused, distracted by footfalls on the stairs above. "I'm sorry. Did Sherlock come in with you?"_

_"He's just gone upstairs to check a few things, I suspect. Had a bit of a fire up there. Though he might need time alone. We've had a family meeting. Unpleasant business. I'm his father, by the way. Arthur Holmes."_

_"Oh, sorry," Rose said, attempting to extricate a hand from underneath the coats. "I'm Rose..." But Arthur Holmes had turned from her. "Sherlock's... girl... friend."_

_"Through here, is it?" Arthur said, his face brightening as he entered the sitting room._

"Didn't you tell them who they were having afternoon tea with?" Rose asked, the unhappy creases in her forehead still prominent.

"It was supposed to be a surprise," Sherlock hastily replied.

"Why did you disappear upstairs the minute you arrived with them?"

Sherlock bowed his head and raked his fingers through his hair.

"Be-cause," he said, suddenly struggling for air. "The whole thing would've been a lot worse in my presence."

"How could it be worse? Your parents refused to believe me. It was awkward!"

_"Ah... there you are, dear. Were you fetching the tea?"_

" _I think Mrs Hudson is. I'll just check," Rose replied to Mrs Holmes's question. Sherlock's parents were now seated comfortably in Mrs Hudson's sitting room. Rose had just hung their coats by the front door._

_Head buzzing in bewilderment, she left for the kitchen. Should she bolt upstairs and drag Sherlock down?_

_Instead, she asked Mrs Hudson, "Didn't they know I was going to be here for afternoon tea?"_

" _Oh, I don't know, love," the landlady replied, as she poured water from the kettle into a tea pot. "Mycroft just asked me to play host, and here I am. Why don't you go and sit down with them and have a nice little chat? They'll like that."_

_Intent on doing no such thing, Rose tried to discreetly pass by the entrance to the sitting room so she could find out what Sherlock was up to._

" _Oh… my dear… girl…" Mrs Holmes beckoned her. "Could you trouble Martha for a glass of water, please? I've forgotten to take my pills, bloomin' things."_

" _Yes… of course, I will," Rose said, her stomach in knots. She drifted into the room and drew in a steadying breath. Bloody Sherlock. She'll have to do this now, before there was any more misunderstanding. "Mr and Mrs Holmes," she said._

" _Oh, just Arthur, please," Mr Holmes said. "And my wife is Louisa."_

_Mrs Holmes stared at Rose with wide eyes, as if warning her against calling her by her first name._

" _It's actually Margaret," Mr Holmes added in a stage whisper. "But she prefers Louisa."_

_Turning to her husband, Mrs Holmes said, "Oh, wouldn't you, if you had the same name as that… floozy? Royalty, indeed!"_

_Rose brought her hands together, lightly clasping them. This was a nightmare._

" _Well, it's lovely to meet you," she said, forcing a tiny smile to her face. "I'm… Rose. Sherlock's… girlfriend."_

_The Holmeses barely reacted at all, except for the slight widening of Mr Holmes's eyes and the narrowing of Mrs Holmes's._

" _Are you sure, dear?" Mrs Holmes asked, with a tilt of her head._

_It was such an odd response to her announcement that Rose opened her mouth with no reply on hand._

" _Because Sherlock doesn't have girlfriends," Mrs Holmes went on. "He won't abide all that nonsense, he's always said. And there was once that…" Mrs Holmes turned to her husband. "What was her name? You know the one… from last year."_

" _Oh!" he said, his eyebrows shooting up as the name came to him. "Janet!"_

" _No! Not Janet, you silly man. Janet's the name of your accountant's secretary." Turning to Rose, she added, "He's got Janet on the brain."_

" _Well, it started with a 'J'," he said mournfully._

" _Jenny!" Mrs Holmes exclaimed, and Mr Holmes nodded his head vigorously. Both pairs of eyes fixed on Rose. "Yes, Jenny," Mrs Holmes continued. "Now she thought she was Sherlock's girlfriend, too. Went to the papers and everything. I don't know what she was thinking."_

" _You mean 'Janine'," Rose said. "Yes, I know about her."_

" _No. 'Jenny'. Jenny Hawkins. Made up some rubbish about Sherlock proposing to her. Completely delusional. He was after information about her boss. Couldn't she see that? It was always about the work, with him."_

" _Where… where do you work?" Mr Holmes asked. "It might have something to do with that."_

_Rose felt as if she were in the Twilight Zone. Did he mean 'it' as in her delusion that she was Sherlock's girlfriend?_

" _I… don't… work… at the moment."_

_She shook her head lightly as if to knock some sense into it. She didn't know why she had turned into a nervous wreck in front of the Holmeses. In the course of her many and varied occupations, she had encountered all manner of people._

_But deep down she knew why._

_They were Sherlock's parents._

_For God's sake! Just tell them, Rose!_

_A tiny bit emboldened, she added,"No, we actually_ are _in a relationship. For quite a few years now." She had no idea how long their relationship had been. When did it start? When they were having regular sex? When Sherlock no longer paid her? Or when she declared her love for him… or vice versa? But she didn't have to tell them those sorts of details to get them to believe her, surely._

" _A long game," Mrs Holmes said knowingly, turning to her husband and giving him a grim smile. "Mycroft told me about those."_

"A long game," Sherlock repeated, a smile tugging at his lips. "And what information am I trying to extract from you, Ms Sulford?"

"Stop it! It's not funny!"

"A bit funny. But surely if our relationship was a farce, why would I allow my bumbling parents to ruin it?"

"That's what your dad said."

" _Oh," Mr Holmes said, turning to his wife, alarm flitting across his features. "Perhaps we shouldn't have said anything."_

" _Mr Holmes," Rose said. "Arthur… Sherlock brought me to London to meet you both."_

" _Brought you?" Mrs Holmes repeated, looking askance._

" _And where are you from?" Mr Holmes asked, his expression warming once more._

" _Edinburgh. I'd just recently moved, but—"_

" _And what do you do in Edinburgh?" he probed._

" _I was studying, but now—"_

" _Studying what?"_

" _F-for a Masters in Applied Criminology and Forensic Psychology."_

" _Ah!" both Holmeses exclaimed simultaneously, as if that explained everything._

" _But why aren't you studying at the moment?" Mrs Holmes asked. "It's not break time, surely. But who knows, with Scotland doing everything their own way. It's a bloomin' nightmare sometimes!"_

" _Um… I stopped to have a baby," Rose answered faintly. This conversation was not going the way she expected it to go._

" _When are you due?" Mr Holmes asked pleasantly._

" _I've… already had it."_

_Rose drew in a steadying breath and brought herself up to her full height. These people were messing with her head. She had to stay focussed._

"We've  _had the baby," she reiterated. "Sherlock and I, just recently. Sherlock has a baby daughter now."_

_Mr Holmes's jaw slackened, and Rose was sure his eyes began to moisten. Mrs Holmes on the other hand, readjusted herself on the sofa._

_Her brow furrowing, she exclaimed, "Now, really! He's gone too far!" Gazing searchingly through the sitting room entrance, she added, "Now where_ is  _that boy!"_

"Ah," said Sherlock. "You see. I'm always in trouble."

"Yes," Rose said, her mood not shifting. "You are."

"But, Rose. If I'd have been there, my mother would've been ten times worse."

"It was extremely uncomfortable for  _me_ , Sherlock!"

"Yes, but… it would've been worse for me. Why make  _two_  people suffer? By escaping upstairs, I've eliminated one half of the parent-child suffering ratio."

"What? That doesn't make any sense."

"Only  _you_  suffered. And that's a good outcome!"

Rose placed her hands on her hips.

"Sherlock," she said. "If a couple has to face an unpleasant situation, it's best to face it together. As a united front."

"It doesn't work like that with my mother. Divide and conquer, that's her motto." Stepping forward and seizing Rose's hands, he exclaimed, "I came away unscathed, Rose! Don't you see? My plan worked!"

His bright, glistening eyes must have had some effect on Rose, for her expression softened. Sherlock hoped she'd imagined what life may have been like for him as a child, where disappointment and high expectation were served as regularly as string beans and Brussels sprouts. And were just as unpalatable.

"I can't stay angry with you," she said, her mouth easing into a smile.

"That's because I'm far too charming," Sherlock replied, his mouth stretching wide.

His heart quickened when Rose rubbed his arm.

"And so is your daughter," she said.

Sherlock didn't doubt it.

" _Ah, here we are," Mrs Hudson said, as she entered the room carrying the tea tray. "Have a seat, love," she told Rose._

" _I think I should go and see what's keeping Sherlock, actually."_

" _No, I'll do that," the landlady insisted. "You sit down."_

" _Martha, could I trouble you for a glass of water?" Mrs Holmes asked, plucking her handbag from the seat beside her. "I've got all these pills, you see. Completely forgot to take them with breakfast. Mykey's car picked us up far too early."_

_Rose sighed wearily and took the armchair nearest the fireplace. What was she supposed to say now? She'd told Sherlock's parents everything, and they thought she was a delusional idiot._

" _I know what you mean," Mrs Hudson said. "I've got a hip and I can't take my usual herbal soothers anymore."_

_While the landlady and Sherlock's mother began to exchange ailments and treatments, Mr Holmes leant past Mrs Hudson and her tea service and asked Rose, "Baby daughter, did you say?"_

_His expression was so hopeful, that Rose realised with a quickening pulse she had made an impression on one of Sherlock's parents._

" _Yes," she said, with a smile. "Her name's Grace. She was born on the 12_ _th_ _of September."_

" _Grace," Arthur Holmes repeated, and his mouth twitched, while his eyes pooled even further._

" _Actually," Rose said, rising from her chair, "I should check on her." She sidestepped Mrs Hudson, who was pouring tea into the cups and was talking about arthritis treatments._

" _She's here?" Arthur said, sitting up straighter, his gaze following Rose as she crossed the tiny room._

" _Yes. We're staying here for the weekend. I'll bring her out."_

_Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Mr Holmes turn to Mrs Holmes, his mouth agape in readiness to interrupt his wife. Rose took that moment to escape into the hallway._

_Mrs Hudson had kindly offered the use of her guest room with the cot she reserved for Rosie. A double bed was also squeezed inside, but Sherlock insisted there was nothing wrong with his bedroom—the bomb blast had barely affected the kitchen—and that he and Rose would sleep upstairs and use the baby monitor to listen for Grace and attend to her needs when necessary._

_As Rose tentatively opened the door to the makeshift nursery, she felt a tiny bit guilty for using her daughter in this way. But Grace was due to wakeup within the hour, so perhaps it wasn't too bad._

" _I'm sorry, Gracie," Rose whispered as she reached for her. "But your daddy's being a bit silly, I think, so it'll have to be you."_

_She held the sleeping infant close and breathed in the comforting scent of baby oil and baby powder. A warmth spread through Rose and invigorated her._

" _It's time to meet your grandparents."_

_When Rose re-entered the sitting room, Mr and Mrs Holmes were engaged in some kind of whispered dispute. Mrs Hudson lifted a tea cup from the table and offered it to Mrs Holmes._

" _Oh!" Mr Holmes exclaimed on seeing Rose carrying her child. He slowly stood, prompting Mrs Holmes to do the same._

" _This is Grace," Rose said to the stunned silence, smoothing her hand over Grace's back._

" _Oh, there she is," Mrs Hudson cooed affectionately._

_Mrs Holmes swiftly rounded the coffee table._

" _Let me see her," she said, her tone a mixture of impatient delight and restrained suspicion._

_Rose shifted Grace from her shoulder to cradle her in her arms as Mrs Holmes stopped in front of her. Mr Holmes joined his wife's side. He emitted an almost inaudible choke._

" _She's as fat as butter," Mrs Holmes said. "Sherlock had long limbs. She obviously takes after you."_

_Rose felt her cheeks glow red._

" _I can see a resemblance to Sherlock," Mr Holmes remarked, his voice subdued in reverence._

" _Nonsense," Mrs Holmes replied._

" _Yes, yes. Look at her lips," Mr Holmes said._

" _Would you like to hold her?" she asked both grandparents, quietly hoping Mr Holmes would take her._

" _Oh, let's have her then," Mrs Holmes replied, business-like._

_Rose gently lowered Grace into her grandmother's arms._

" _Oh," Mrs Hudson said, and she patted Rose's arm. "I'll get my camera."_

_Rose would've loved to have snapped a picture on her phone at that moment. Both grandparents looking down at their grandchild: Mr Holmes with his eyes glinting, and a faint smile—Rose was sure of it—on Mrs Holmes's face. As they were still strangers to her, Rose didn't feel comfortable whipping out her phone and taking snaps._

" _Grace, did you say her name was?" Mrs Holmes asked._

" _Yes, after my—"_

" _The Dunbars," Mrs Holmes said to her husband. "Remember them? They had a daughter called Grace. Sherlock was smitten with her."_

" _I've named her after my grandmother, actually," Rose cut in. "Not Sherlock's… childhood friend."_

" _It's a beautiful name," Mr Holmes remarked, offering Rose a smile._

" _Thank you."_

" _Here we are," Mrs Hudson said as she re-entered the room._

_The landlady took two photos, both of them rendering a blurry image on the back of her camera._

" _Oh, it's not working again," she said, frowning as she took in the screen._

" _You might need to turn the flash on," Rose suggested._

" _We'd better sit down," Mrs Holmes said. "All this fuss, she's bound to wake up."_

" _She likes hearing people talk," Rose countered. "And lots of movement. Just like Sherlock did, Mycroft said."_

" _What would he know, the silly boy," Mrs Holmes retorted, moving carefully as she rounded the coffee table. As she took her seat, she asked, "Does she sleep well at night?"_

" _Up and down," Rose replied. "But that's normal for this—"_

" _Ah, nothing like Sherlock then. He used to sleep through at such a young age. After only a few weeks we didn't hear a peep out of him, did we?" She looked up at Mr Holmes as he joined her on the sofa._

" _Not a peep," he replied._

_Rose frowned. Then what was Mycroft talking about with fans and radios and chanting Latin verbs to a baby Sherlock?_

" _Sit down, love," Mrs Hudson beckoned. "I'll try one with all of you."_

_Rose made her way back to Mrs Hudson's armchair and looked up at the camera. This picture won't turn out either, Rose thought. The room's obviously too dark._

_Frowning, the landlady asked, "What does 'Card Full' mean?"_

" _Ooh," Mr Holmes said, distracted by a squirming Grace._

_Here we go, Rose thought. She doesn't like being still._

" _Oh, she's waking up!" Mrs Hudson said, barely containing her excitement. "When she opens her eyes, you'll see they look just like Sherlock's. And when she yawns, she looks just like him when he's bored!"_

_When Sherlock finally waltzed in, Rose narrowed her eyes at him._

"There, you see?" Sherlock said. "They're all happy now, aren't they?"

"I want you to go in there and explain to them who I am."

"You've already done that."

"I'm not sure your mother believes me."

Sherlock sighed.

"Why does this have to be so difficult?" he asked.

"Up until now, it hasn't been difficult for you at all. You haven't had to do or say anything. You were hiding upstairs."

Sherlock contemplated his options. He could stand his ground and have Rose upset with him, or… he could spend a few more minutes in the company of his parents and have his mother unhappy with him. Of course, his mother's degree of unhappiness would be lessened somewhat, since Rose had already announced their relationship status. It couldn't be too bad, surely.

"Okay. Fine."

As they made to leave the kitchen, the unmistakeable hiccupping cries of their daughter floated out of the sitting room.

Sherlock clenched his hands by his side as he preceded Rose into the room.

"She must need winding," Mrs Holmes said, lifting Grace to her shoulder.

"Nope," Sherlock said, approaching the sofa where his parents sat. "She wants a feed, but first she'll need her nappy changed."

He confidently reached for his daughter and ignored his mother's splutterings.

This was easy! He could escape now and not have to endure any more nonsense. Why didn't he think of having children sooner? Such a good excuse for leaving a room and a buffer to his mother's inanities.

"Oh, she's such a good baby," Mrs Hudson cooed as Grace's protests were immediately lessened upon snuggling into her father's chest.

Sherlock straightened up and eyed his escape route. Unfortunately, Rose stood in the doorway, and by the raising of her eyebrows, she was silently reminding him of his unpleasant task. Best get it over and done with then, he thought, his mind scrambling for relevant data and arranging it into coherent sentences.

"Okay, then," he said under his breath. "In case there's any misunderstanding," he said, looking vaguely in his parents' direction. "Rose over there is my girlfriend. My partner. And Grace is our baby. Our love child, I suppose. But I'm not even sure what that means, and sex child just sounds wrong. Just so you know, I'm sentimentally attached to Rose. For life, I guess. My life, anyway, and who knows how short that will be. But we'll probably get married and have two more babies… perhaps buy a station wagon and a family pass to the London Zoo. Any questions? No? Okay. Duty calls."

In two quick strides he was across the room. By the rather telling silence, he knew his parents were gaping. But a quick glance at Rose revealed glossy eyes and parted lips.

He didn't know why  _she_  had reacted that way when she was privy to the information, but he gave her a wink anyway and escaped the stifling confines of the room with his baby daughter.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I chose the names "Arthur" and "Louisa" for Sherlock's parents because "Arthur" is the creator of Sherlock, and the real Arthur Conan Doyle's first wife was Louisa. It fit with the L initial for Mummy Holmes (M.L. Holmes, as was written on the cover of the maths book she wrote). I like making vague connections to canon. And of course, from where would Sherlock get the idea that you didn't have to be called by your first given name if you didn't like it? :D
> 
> I estimate about three chapters left to finish this story!


	118. I Know What You Could Become

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, this chapter got too long and I had to cut it and move the rest into a new chapter. Some of you wanted more Holmes parents' reactions, so instead of skipping over the rest of Rose and Grace's stay in London, I've written a bit more about it in the beginning. So that means after this chapter, there are still potentially three chapters to go. I say "potentially" because the characters keep doing their own thing. I'm terrible, I know. And I do want to get this monster of a story finished as well.
> 
> There are a couple of plot points in this and the next chapter that I probably would not have written if I intended to wait for S5. But I'm not going to hold my breath for that one. This story will veer off into my own head canon and will end with this season.

 

Rose gazed down at Sherlock stretched out on the bed next to her. He'd returned to his reclined position after removing his shoes upon her orders. He flexed his feet still clad in socks and rested his clasped hands on top of his stomach.

Rose reached across and carded her fingers through his hair.

"Mm, that's nice," he drawled. "Keep doing that."

His face slackened and his eyes remained closed. A perfect picture of contentment. Warmth drizzled through Rose. Her two favourite people in the world comforted by her.

But one was a breastfeeding infant, the other a grown man hiding from his mother. When he'd swept out of the room leaving a stunned silence in his wake, Mrs Hudson had eventually chuckled, saying, "I can imagine him dashing about all over London with a brood of children following behind."

Mrs Holmes's eyes had widened at the landlady's words, while Sherlock's dad positively beamed at Rose as if he was bursting with pride.

It took a moment for Rose to recollect the thoughts that had tumbled to the floor.

"I'll… I'll just see if Sherlock needs a hand," she said faintly, before making her own escape.

At least she had a good reason for staying away. Grace needed to be fed now that Sherlock had changed her nappy, and he insisted on staying in the nursery to keep Rose company.

… _we'll probably get married…_

Now that… that was a surprise statement coming from Sherlock Holmes's lips. And so unlikely to happen in reality. Their relationship had to remain hidden and they still hadn't devised how they could continue doing so now they had a child. Official papers containing both their names just complicated matters. But what would happen as Grace grew older? What would they tell her?

…  _probably get married…_

But the thought kept echoing through Rose's mind, making her giddy with apprehension. It wasn't a surprise that Sherlock was committed to their relationship. That was a given, these days. But after helping him write his speech for the Watsons' wedding, Rose was quite sure she knew what Sherlock Holmes thought of marriage.

Rose had never imagined herself getting married, because she never thought she'd ever be worthy enough for someone to choose her as their wife.

 _Stop it, Rose!_ she admonished herself. _He just gushed out a whole lot of nonsense. He probably doesn't even know he said it._

Rose let her gaze drop to her daughter. Grace's sleepy contentment loosened the tightness Rose hadn't noticed had stolen over her chest. But emotion bubbled through her—the good kind, the kind that filled her heart until it spilled over. Before she knew it, tears pressed against her eyes.

As Grace needed to be repositioned on the breast, she stole her hand back to adjust her daughter. Grace was at the stage Rose liked to call "sleep feeding", when the infant had obtained her fill from the breast and had fallen asleep, but would intermittently suckle a couple of times a minute for comfort.

As Rose smoothed a hand over Grace's soft hair, she sniffed back tears.

"What's wrong?" Sherlock asked, having snapped out of his contented state, probably in the absence of Rose's soothing caresses. He propped himself up on one elbow, two lines appearing between his brows. "Have I upset you?"

"No," Rose said, the word riding on a wave of light laughter. "They're just happy tears.

Sherlock sat up and scoffed.

"Happy tears," he repeated derisively, dropping his legs to the ground. "All tears of emotion have the same make-up. Only tears produced by external factors, such as onions, and the basal tears that our eyes—"

"Oh, stop it!"

She couldn't help but smile as Sherlock rounded the bed. She never knew what would come out of his mouth from one minute to the next.

"Okay, hand her over," he said, stopping in front of her.

"Why?"

"Because she's finished feeding and she's now using you as a dummy, as you like to call it. And besides… she's the secret weapon I can wield whenever I'm in the company of my parents. My mother, specifically."

"Cut your mother some slack," Rose said, easing her nipple from Grace's mouth. "She's received some very distressing news today."

"The existence of our daughter isn't distressing."

"I'm talking about  _her_  daughter. Eurus."

"Oh."

"And she probably masks her feelings with statements of logic and practicality… hmm, much like someone else I know."

"Who?" Sherlock asked, his expression genuinely perplexed.

But Rose just chuckled in response.

As she lifted Grace up so Sherlock could gather his daughter in his arms, he mused, "Have you ever noticed that the word  _smother_ contains the word  _mother_?"

" _I'm_  a mother, in case you haven't noticed."

"Yes. Exactly."

Rose ignored Sherlock's quip and watched as he brought his daughter to his shoulder and gently rocked her.

"How did it go earlier," Rose asked. "With telling your parents the news about Eurus?"

"As well as expected."

Rose tried to imagine what it may have been like in the absence of any further explanations from Sherlock. She didn't want to prompt him right now.

Sherlock pressed a soft kiss to Grace's head. Was this an effort to soothe himself, Rose wondered. Her eyes welled with tears once more, for both the present and the past.

As Sherlock gently rocked Grace from side to side, he caught sight of Rose and tutted.

"Mummy's crying happy tears again," he said to his daughter. "She's practically bouncing with joy."

"Oh, be quiet," Rose said, wiping at her eyes before adjusting her maternity bra strap.

"Let's hear it, then," he said resignedly. "What's got you full of  _lachrymose ecstasy_?"

Rose tried to prevent herself dissolving into tears again by forcing a smile to her face. She'd concentrate on the present, then. Not the past.

"Because I love this," she said. "Being… here."

Sherlock wrinkled his nose.

"Really? Mrs Hudson's guest room? Smells like camphor."

"No," she said with a light laugh. "Here, in London, with… with everyone who knows you, the real you, with them knowing the truth about us… I mean… the sort of truth. John and Mrs Hudson and your family. But only John and Mycroft really know about… me. And I'm fine with that now. But they've all met Grace. Everyone who matters in your life. It's just… it feels… so... comforting."

"You have a very broad definition of people who matter in my life."

"Sherlock!"

Sherlock chuckled and gently rubbed his daughter's back.

"But you haven't met Molly Hooper," he said, looking away as he continued to sway with his daughter in his arms. "She knows. I had to tell her." Sherlock paused to clear his throat. "And then there's Greg Lestrade. Not sure how I'll go about telling him yet. He has an annoying habit of wanting to document my moments of ordinariness. Of course, all these people have to be sworn to secrecy. Nothing new there, where I'm concerned."

The revelation about Molly Hooper gave Rose pause. She kept hearing this name—a pathologist, wasn't she? But yes. She'd never met the woman. So Sherlock had told this Molly Hooper about them, too? In how much detail, exactly?

She dismissed her thoughts as quickly as they had arisen. She had to trust Sherlock's judgement.

"Back in Edinburgh," Rose went on, "I only had Bob and Justine who knew. But now…"

Her throat constricted, the words dying on emotion. Now, what? What waited for her back in Scotland?

Sherlock seemed to notice Rose trailing off and he gave a light cough.

"I told Mycroft about Bob and Justine this morning," he said. "Thought I should remind him to feel guilty about the daylight raid again. He said he knew they'd left, which confirmed for me my suspicions about the new residents at number 46."

"What new residents?"

"I noticed them before we left this morning. Mycroft's installed his people. Our premises will be monitored from now on, so we don't have to concern ourselves with security while we're away."

Rose frowned.

"He's got people watching us?"

"Watching the house. External surveillance only. But he thinks he might have a replacement for the Wilsons. For the short term."

Rose's chest tightened.

"No. I don't want anyone else."

"You'll need a nanny, at the very least."

"Will I?" Rose challenged. She didn't know why she suddenly felt defensive.

Sherlock shrugged.

"Perhaps. Perhaps not," he conceded. He folded his upper lip inwards, which indicated to Rose he was uncomfortable with what he had to say next. "I'll still be in London, from time to time," he said, his gaze unwavering, "and I'll come up to Edinburgh as often as I can. But it's up to you, of course, whether or not you need someone… to help out in my absence."

Rose's muscles tensed. She hated this feeling of inadequacy. Couldn't she raise Grace on her own…  _from time to time_ , as Sherlock had stated? Had she really demonstrated that she couldn't?

Rose slid from the bed, feeling Sherlock's gaze upon her. Busying herself with straightening the sheets and fluffing out the pillows, she said, "I'm sure I'll be fine. I've got plenty of…"

She exhaled a tiny sigh as she held onto one pillow.

_Friends and family._

That's what she'd like to say.  _Friends and family_  in Scotland.

What family?

And which of her 'friends' would help out? They were young people busy with their university studies and part-time work. And she didn't know the women well enough from her pregnancy group to ask them to help out so soon. They would've all had their own babies by now. The only friend who could possibly have helped her was Lisa, but she'd moved to Liverp—

Oh.

For God's sake.

Rose's insides twisted.

"Rose," Sherlock said softly.

Rose shook her morose thoughts loose and dropped the second pillow on top of the first. She made to round the bed to straighten the sheets on the other side, but Sherlock gently reached for her arm.

"You may not need help," he said, "but you did once say the house was too big and empty for you. The presence of another person, even a temporary one, may fill that void."

"But Bob and Justine were the perfect fit," Rose said. "How is Mycroft going to find the right couple who know you well enough to be protective of us? They'll need to respect your secret identity and have skills in combat and surveillance and... and nappy changing."

"You'd be surprised," Sherlock said with a half smile. "There are a lot of agents who infiltrate households that are of interest to the intelligence community by posing as au pairs. Well… Mycroft thinks he has such a person."

Rose's expression remained unchanged. How could anyone replace the Wilsons in her  _heart_?

"Someone from Australia," Sherlock went on.

"An Australian au pair?"

"There, you see? It sounds so cliché nobody would question it."

Rose shrugged lightly.

"I'll think about it," she said, stepping away from Sherlock to finish making the bed.

"Mycroft will do a thorough background check," Sherlock continued. "I'll vet them myself, and of course you can interview them."

Straightening up from fluffing out the pillows on Sherlock's side of the bed, Rose said, "You want me to interview someone who has the skills to trick others into believing they're a completely different person?"

"You'll be able to tell whether you like them or not, in a general sense, surely? It's all that intuition nonsense you were spouting earlier in the year. But it will be an assignment within the intelligence community, so they won't have to fake their personality to you. Well, not really, only to outsiders. Like Bob and Justine did. They'd probably keep cover just for the sake of consistency."

Rose smoothed a hand over the bedcovers, attempting to remove every last wrinkle.

"I said I'll think about it. Now, do you want to take her out there? I'm pretty sure your dad's dying for a cuddle. And don't forget to put your shoes back on.

* * *

In the sitting room, Mrs Holmes— _Louisa_ —quizzed Rose about her studies. Rose didn't mind at all; she had always been enthusiastic about the subject matter of her courses. Louisa was particularly interested in the course module relating to quantitative research, a module Rose was yet to take and knew only at an introductory level. But Louisa spoke quite eloquently about the application of multivariate statistical analysis techniques and she offered to assist Rose should she return to her studies in the future.

Shooting glances at Sherlock now and again, Rose would find him kneading his brow with a pained look on his face, or stretching out his legs, slumping back in his chair and staring at the ceiling.

Mr Holmes— _Arthur_ —had a long cuddle with his granddaughter, until she decided to protest very loudly, after which Sherlock made his excuses about needing to rock her to sleep (receiving a tiny tut by his mother as he left). Arthur regaled Rose with anecdotes from the small amount of time he'd spent in Edinburgh in his late teens, while Mrs Hudson and Louisa nattered between themselves about line dancing in Oklahoma and exotic dancing in Florida.

When it was time for them to leave, Rose tried to signal to Sherlock in the nursery. The annoying lump had stretched out on the bed, half-sleeping while he patted Grace on his chest. He nodded to Rose in acknowledgement, but didn't emerge from the room to farewell his parents.

Rose joined Mrs Hudson in the entranceway to see their guests off.

"Now make sure you visit us in the Home Counties," Louisa said. By now, Rose was used to the way Sherlock's mother spoke and took her suggestion as an invitation, rather than a command. "There's no point coming all the way from Edinburgh for the chaos of London," Mrs Holmes went on. "It's much more civilised where we are, and we have a garden."

"We'd love to come. Thank you," Rose said, receiving a kiss on the cheek as well.

Arthur discreetly drew Rose aside as the two older women found another topic to discuss by the front door.

"You both said you were his girlfriend," he told Rose in a low voice, "but that sounds far too casual. You're so much more than that. Welcome to our family." He, too, gave Rose a kiss on the cheek while she murmured her thanks. What she really felt like doing was bursting into tears at the sentiment his words conveyed. "And she's every bit like Sherlock was," Arthur continued in a conspiratorial whisper. "Except for the… you know… gender." He gave Rose a wink and followed his wife outside.

Rose helped the landlady clear away and wash up the tea things, her heart light and buoyant. When she joined Sherlock in the guest room, she found him still wakeful. Curling up into his side, with his arm wrapped around her, Rose smoothed a hand over Grace's back.

When Rose discreetly sniffed, Sherlock murmured, "Happy tears?" Rose nodded and snuggled into the crook of his neck. He emitted a deep throated chuckle and pressed a kiss to her forehead.

That evening, John and Rosie visited, to Mrs Hudson's delight, and they all had fish and chips ordered from Sherlock's favourite place on the Marylebone Road.

Rose felt a little disappointed Mycroft was apparently too busy to pop in after work. Did he work late on a Friday night? Sherlock muttered something about Lady Smallwood that Rose didn't quite catch.

Afterwards, they discussed Rose returning to Edinburgh on Sunday morning, with Sherlock staying in London an extra few days to organise the cleaning up of his flat. John volunteered to help, and Mrs Hudson cooed in delight at the prospect of having Rosie all to herself during that time.

Rose knew she'd be perfectly fine all by herself in Scotland, comforted by the fact that Mycroft's security detail would be present a discreet distance away.

That night, in Sherlock's bedroom upstairs, they took their time exploring and pleasuring one another, building up a powerful arousal and luxuriously bringing each other to their final peak. Afterwards, they lay sated, limbs entwined, twin breaths cooling the air. Practicalities had them dress in pyjamas after a short period. They were still parents with a baby to monitor in someone else's house, after all.

On Saturday, Rose and Mrs Hudson went for a walk to the shops, with the landlady finding pairs of everything for both baby girls—with Rosie's outfits a few sizes larger than Grace's. Rose detoured to the bank on the Strand where Mary's safety deposit box was located, thankful it was open on a Saturday. She withdrew the package for John, discreetly addressed it to him, and popped it into the postbox across the street from 221 on their way home. She told Mrs Hudson the package was for a friend in Blackpool.

Rose and Sherlock had discussed John's parcel prior to leaving Edinburgh. Mary had said Rose would know when was an appropriate time to send it to John, and Sherlock agreed that the present moment appeared to be the right time.

When Rose returned to Edinburgh, her plan was to clean the house from top to bottom, but she found there was hardly anything to be done since Justine had kept the place pretty spic and span.

Rose reflected on Mycroft's impending favour to her. Was the cloak and dagger still necessary now that the Wilsons had left and Sherlock would be absent some of the time? She thought she ought to check with Mycroft first, so she decided to send him an email via his encrypted network.

His prompt reply told her that their original plan may not be necessary if Rose took up the offer of the Australian au pair, and the service could be provided in the privacy of her own home.

Rose thought about her options. Gaining the same skills from within her own walls sounded very attractive. The necessity for external premises only came about because of her need to keep this hidden from Bob and Justine, but now that wasn't necessary. And should she still keep this a secret from Sherlock? Rose was leaning towards informing him about it.

Rose replied to Mycroft, "I'll take the option of the au pair, but only if Sherlock approves of her first."

For the start of the week, Rose contacted her old uni friends for a catch up. After much to-ing and fro-ing, they finally decided on visiting Rose for lunch on Tuesday, in between classes—with Rose providing the lunch, of course.

Alice and Indira paid little attention to Grace. They eagerly imparted gossip about their course, people they knew, and assignments they'd worked on. Rose was only interested in the details of their assessments, rather than any people gossip and she was glad when they finally left. The triviality of their lives irked her somewhat compared to the drama her own life had accumulated since she'd left Edinburgh for London.

Sherlock had phoned her twice while he was away. He and John had started piecing together the flat, item by item, when Mrs Hudson told them off.

" _It has to be cleared out completely and re-wall papered! You can't just hang up your silly cow head over that mess. The carpet and curtains need replacing, and look at my bloody windows!"_

" _Bison skull, Mrs Hudson."_

So Sherlock planned to return to Edinburgh mid-week after removing personal and important items from his living area. Mycroft's minions started clearing out the rest of the rubble, before they would remove and replace the furnishings, and re-paper and re-paint the walls and ceiling. Sherlock had tried to continue working when they commenced—fending off queries from the various DI's in Scotland Yard, but he found he couldn't concentrate with all that movement about. They knew where to find him, anyway, even though he'd be absent for a few days.

"If I'm not accepting walk-in clients, I may as well solve the email ones from Edinburgh," Sherlock told Rose.

* * *

When Sherlock arrived after lunch, Grace's hiccupping protests interrupted their hello kiss.

"I knew you'd be like that," Sherlock said, releasing Rose from his embrace and crossing the kitchen to where his daughter sat in her rocker perched on top of the dining table. "The centre of attention, that's where you like to be."

"She loves watching the rain," Rose said. "And probably likes listening to the sound of it as well. And here's some news for you: she's dropped one of her night-time feeds."

"That's because Daddy wasn't here," Sherlock said, scooping up his daughter from the rocker. "What's the point in waking up if there's no Daddy to chat to, hmm?"

"I think it may have been the noise of the fan I put in the nursery," Rose told him. "It's keeping her asleep."

What is this nonsense? Sherlock thought.

They took tea in the living room, Sherlock sitting bent kneed, with legs propped up on the coffee table, and Grace lying in his lap, facing him.

"We can have a proper conversation this way," he said to his daughter. "So what have you been doing while I've been away? Helping Mummy load the dishwasher? Painting the fence? I hope you haven't been idle."

"She's been staring up at my phone whenever I take photos to send to her uncle and grandparents."

Sherlock slowly turned his attention to Rose. Now grandparents he could understand. If Rose could tolerate being in constant communication with his parents, then good on her. But…

"Uncle?" he repeated.

"Yes," Rose replied, her mouth quirking into a smile.

"You've been sending baby photos to my brother."

"Yes."

"And he's been... replying?

"Yes."

Sherlock ruminated on this fact for a few seconds.

"The fate of civil servants and diplomats, in fact, whole governments and intelligence agents abroad rely on the quick-witted decisions of one man who also props up the British Government and the British Security services… and you're sending him…  _baby photos_?"

"Yes, Sherlock."

Sherlock dragged his eyes back to his daughter. Wonders would never cease.

"Speaking of Mycroft," Rose said. "I asked him for a favour the other day, when he was visiting."

Interesting, Rose's use of the word  _visiting_. The man had authorised a home invasion that day. But favour? One didn't just casually ask Mycroft Holmes for a favour, but that may explain why Rose had readily agreed to meet their parents and study Eurus's files for him.

"I wasn't going to tell you…." she continued.

Sherlock sighed.

"And I wasn't go to tell Bob and Justine either. They might've assumed I was doing it because I thought they'd failed us in some way… but now…" she trailed off.

"What?" Sherlock asked. This suddenly sounded very serious.

"It was because of Mycroft's… thing… you know, with the soldiers."

Sherlock hummed in impatient agreement, his brow furrowing.

"I was really upset I fell to pieces like that."

"That was a very human reaction," Sherlock interjected.

"But you and John didn't seem phased by it and neither did Justine. Bob was injured… so…"

"Rose, what are you trying to say?"

Rose exhaled deeply.

"I don't want that to ever happen again."

"I'm sure my brother—"

"I'm not talking about the… the raid. I mean,  _me_. Falling to pieces… fainting… and…"  _Vomiting_ , Sherlock thought. "If something like that happens again," Rose continued, "or even just... just one person pointing a gun at me… like Mary did that time… then I don't want to freeze. I want to keep my wits about me. So I asked Mycroft if he could provide someone to… to t-train me."

Sherlock's eyebrows shot up.

"Train you?"

"Not in armed combat or even self-defence… although that could come later, I suppose… basic self-defence,  _not_  armed combat. I just want someone to teach me about firearms. I want to recognise if a situation is dangerous… if someone's pretending to be my friend… if a woman on a bus is really reading a magazine, or if she's actually monitoring me. I want to be the one to spot that the new residents at number 48 are actually agents…"

"46."

"What?"

"Number 46. Never mind."

Sherlock's head was buzzing with all sorts of scenarios, none of them good.

"…for Grace's sake," Rose was saying. "If you want me to tell you exactly what the woman who threatened me looked like, or the name and colour of the courier van who dropped off a suspicious package, then I need to remain calm enough to observe these things, don't you think?"

Sherlock's chest tightened and he dragged his gaze from Rose back to Grace. Fear was drip fed into his system. What kind of danger did Rose expect to face on a regular basis that necessitated her to ask Mycroft for basic training?

It made him ill to think that this was the world he brought to Rose and now his baby daughter. But he'd already anticipated this, hadn't he? After Mary had died, he'd realised this wasn't the life for Rose and their then unborn child. He'd decided to let her go. Let  _them_  go. And the idea and its execution had nearly torn him apart, from the inside out.

But he couldn't let Rose willingly step into his world. Not like this.

"No," he said quietly.

"What do you mean, 'no'? I'm not asking your permission, Sherlock. I wasn't even going to tell you. I'm doing this for Grace. She needs a mother who won't fall to pieces. I'm her primary carer. She'll be with me more often than anyone else."

Grace's brows knitted together before the infant let out a squawk. She didn't appreciate Rose's tone of voice any more than Sherlock did.

He brought his daughter to his chest and rose from the sofa, furiously attempting to crush his anxiety about Rose and Mycroft's little agreement.

"So how's he going to do it then," he asked Rose, "your… introduction to espionage training?"

"He was going to set up something like a Pilates studio," Rose said, rising from her seat also. A tiny smile graced her lips. "… Morningside Road… somewhere along there… and I'd attend twice weekly, perhaps. I wanted to hide this from Bob and Justine, so this seemed the perfect way to get out of the house without them. Justine would've loved me going to something like Pilates while she looked after Grace. And Bob would've dropped me off with no desire to enter the premises himself. But all that's not necessary now. Mycroft said his Australian nanny's perfectly qualified to train me herself. From home. So that'll be good if she works out."

Of course Mycroft would suggest that, Sherlock thought, gently patting Grace's back when he felt her squirming. This au pair conveniently possessed all the skills they needed. It was quite obvious why Mycroft was pushing the Wilson's replacement now. Her other role would be to report back to him. Sherlock would be scrutinising her very carefully.

"Let me think about it," he said. He wasn't going to offer to teach her himself; he hoped that much was obvious. How anxious would that make him feel, imagining all the scenarios he would have to teach her to look out for? And what if she wasn't any good? What would he do then?

Worry! That's what!

"I'm doing it regardless," Rose said.

"Then let me talk to Mycroft about it."

"You're not to dissuade him from helping me."

Sherlock murmured something about Grace needing to be patted to sleep in the nursery and he quietly took his leave.

There was nothing for it, he concluded after two hours and forty minutes of holding Grace to him as he patted her while lying on the spare bed in the nursery. He'd come to a decision and now he had to convince Rose that it was the best way to move forward.

* * *

Rose's skin prickled. The expression on Sherlock's face as he sat on the coffee table in front of her clearly demonstrated his emotional state. He wasn't even attempting to mask what he was feeling.

Rose removed Grace from her breast. Her infant had been at it for long enough anyway, and she needed some awake time.

"There are too many people in this relationship," Sherlock said gravely. "It's time to get rid of one of them."

Rose's heart sank as she held Grace over her shoulder, feeling her daughter's tiny breath on her neck. She scanned Sherlock's current appearance—the dark jeans, fitted shirt with rolled up sleeves, and if he stayed in Edinburgh for more than a few days, the dark stubble of an unshaven face. This was his alter-ego.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I don't know how this will help at all. Killing Scott Williams is only going to make me a single mum who's financially well-off. How will that explain  _you_  being here in Edinburgh?"

"No," Sherlock said, his expression unchanging. "Not Scott Williams. I'm talking about killing Sherlock Holmes."


	119. I Needed to Move the Target

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the tune Sherlock is humming towards the end of this chapter, think in terms of a double bass or cello playing it at a slower tempo, rather than how you hear it on his violin in the show.
> 
> Another long chapter. Hope you don't mind.

 

Rose's jaw dropped and blood leeched from her face.

"It's Sherlock Holmes who attracts danger," Sherlock continued when Rose was unable to speak. "Sherlock Holmes who has enemies at every turn; Sherlock Holmes who incites media interest. This makes sense, Rose. With Sherlock Holmes out of the picture, there will be no interest in you, from either criminals or media outlets. Nobody can follow Sherlock Holmes here, because there won't be anyone to follow."

Her throat tight and dry, Rose had to force out the words.

"And where will  _you_  be?"

Thoughts of Sherlock hiding out abroad once again, for an indeterminate period, unreachable and...  _alone_... flitted through her mind.

"Here," he replied. "Scott Williams will reside here. Permanently."

Rose blinked uncomprehendingly. This wasn't... Sherlock...

This was... this was... stupid.

Utterly... utterly... stupid.

"No," she said. "You're  _Sherlock Holmes_. I love  _Sherlock_ , not Scott Williams.  _Scott Williams_  belongs to… to… to no one."

"Rose, it won't make any difference up here. I'll still be  _me_."

"And what about London? And your work?"

"I'll... find... something."

Was he joking?

"Like what?" she asked, blood pressure rising. "Bookkeeping? Bar work?"

"Rose."

"Have you even thought this through?"

"I'll talk to Mycroft. He's organised one of these things before."

" _One of these things_!" Rose repeated through gritted teeth. She rose from her seat, a delicate flush crossing her cheeks. "Hold Grace!"

"Sorry?"

"Hold – your – daughter. I need to yell at you. From over there."

Sherlock opened his mouth as if to protest, but took his daughter from Rose anyway.

Rose strode to the other side of the room and stopped in front of the doorway to the kitchen, fists clenched, every muscle coiled in readiness. Sherlock had risen from his perch on the coffee table, cradling Grace in his arms, his eyes a tad wider, as if slightly amused.

" _It's not your 21_ _st_ _, Sherlock!_ " Rose yelled, gesturing widely. "I don't care how many of  _these things_ Mycroft's organised before! It's your  _fake death!_   _Again!_ You're not planning this between you and Mycroft. You're discussing this with  _me_  and  _I don't agree_!"

Grace had hiccupped her protests in Sherlock's arms, prompting Rose's eyes to water as well. She'd made her daughter cry.

"Mycroft might think of other options to keep me occupied," Sherlock said calmly, while he smoothed a hand over Grace's back.

"Stop it," she said, her face dissolving. He was speaking nonsense. All of it. Nonsense.

"I could work for MI5 from here."

Rose left the doorway, crossing the room back to Sherlock and Grace, drawn to her daughter who continued to protest. She didn't want to hear any more of this rubbish and she wanted to soothe her infant.

"I said,  _stop it_."

Tears fell freely now, which she angrily brushed away.

"If you think about it," he continued in an annoyingly even voice, as he gently swayed where he stood, his daughter secure in his arms, "you'll realise this is the only option we have left."

Rose's insides churned. She was responsible for this. She had made him worried about her receiving training from Mycroft's people. He thought the danger posed by the life he lived was first and foremost on her mind.

"No," she said, her eyes imploring his.

"I'll be going back to London and then onto Sherrinford at the end of the week," Sherlock said, continuing to smooth a hand over his daughter's back. "Mycroft wants to try getting through to Eurus again."

Hackles raised once more, Rose used all her will power not to yell at him again.

"I don't care about your  _f—kin sister!_ "

Grace squawked again and Sherlock turned and moved away from Rose, patting his daughter all the while.

"She's been... unresponsive," he said, as if Rose hadn't sworn at him. "More so than in the past, Mycroft said." But Rose didn't care to hear about Eurus.  _Lisa._  Her skin still prickled. "I'll talk to him about my plan for us," Sherlock continued. "And see if he can come up with any options for keeping me occupied as well. But no decision will be made until I talk to you about it again." He turned back to face her. "I won't do anything you don't endorse one hundred percent. Okay?"

Rose about-faced and stormed out of the room, Grace's cries still piercing the air.

She pulled up in front of the dining room window, her chest heaving, and watched the rain pelt down on the uneven surfaces in the back garden. She clenched her fists as Grace's cries rose and fell in the adjoining room.

Stupid man.

Stupid  _stupid_  man.

He thought this solution would remove her concerns about being attacked some day? About being exposed? Removing Sherlock Holmes from existence.  _That_  was his brilliant plan?

Grace's steady cries echoed throughout the entranceway as Sherlock paced through there. His patient shushes felt as if they were supposed to soothe Rose as well.

_Genius, my arse!_

Rose folded her arms in front of her, not really seeing the damp grey world beyond the window pane. Grace's cries lessened, turning into an intermittent sob, partially muffled against Sherlock's chest and the rhythm of his patting.

"Whatever we decide," Sherlock said through the doorway to the kitchen, "nothing will be put in motion for quite a while. In the meantime, you still need a nanny. I'll see if Mycroft can arrange a meeting when I go back to London as well."

With those parting words, he left.

Rose whirled around. Where was he going? To put Grace in her cot?  _But she was supposed to have awake time!_

She strode towards the entranceway and heard Sherlock's footfalls halfway up the stairs.

_Fine._

_Whatever._

* * *

Rose tossed the last item, a black cotton t-shirt of Sherlock's, into the dryer, turned the dial to sixty and pressed start. She grabbed the basket of clothes she'd removed from the dryer beforehand and placed it onto the dining table. Various light-coloured items of hers, Sherlock's and Grace's half-filled the basket. She drew out the first item, Sherlock's chambray shirt, and scowled.

A Scott Williams number.

Why does  _he_  get to live? Why does  _anyone_  have to die?

Annoyed, she tossed the shirt back into the basket and reached for a sleepsuit of Grace's. She proceeded to fold the garment within an inch of its life before starting on the next.

Rose had folded most of the items in the basket by the time Sherlock returned to the kitchen without Grace.

"She's not supposed to go to sleep right now," Rose said, having glanced at Sherlock before turning back to the washing. She could iron  _Scott's_  button up shirts… get the ironing board out… But… she'd probably scorch them. All of them. Accidentally.

"She's not asleep," Sherlock replied. "She's watching that execution mobile thingy."

"The what?"

"The mobile… with the animals... Annoying tune. It was on the floor. So I... re-attached it to the cot."

"I took it off because it got in my way every time I put Grace in there," she said, folding the last item.

"Yes, I could see how that would pose a problem," Sherlock replied, approaching her, "so I attached it to the other end. She can still see it. Well… the fuzzy image of it anyway. Her eyesight's not quite developed at this age."

_Fantastic. Glad Sherlock's logical processing abilities could come in so handy. There are all sorts of domestic problems he can put his mind to! Why does he need cases!_

A lump rose in her throat.

 _This isn't the life I wanted for him!_ her mind screamed, before the full weight of Sherlock's stupid idea descended on her. Her limbs felt heavy, and a pang of impending loss stabbed through her. The pressure built up inside her until Rose dipped her head and shuddered a sob into her hand.

There was a momentary stillness in the air before she felt Sherlock's warm presence. As an arm stole around her, he said, "I can take it off again, if you like."

This just made Rose emit a mutant sob-laugh into her hand.

She loved him, the great lump. He was wonderful and kind and caring, but oh, so  _STUPID_  sometimes!

Rose turned in towards Sherlock when he fully embraced her.

"You're not really upset about the farm animal execution mobile, are you?" he asked.

Rose lifted her gaze and blinked her tear-stained eyes up at Sherlock.

She sniffed once, then asked, "Why do you keep calling it an execution mobile?"

"Well, they're hanging, aren't they? All those stripey little animals getting the death penalty. What did they do to deserve that? Or do you think it was a mass suicide? Not enough evidence to suggest one way or the other."

Rose carefully examined Sherlock's eyes. Not a trace of humour in them. Was he serious? She bit back the desire to burst into laughter. Instead, she opened her mouth to say something sensible, but her thoughts drifted back to the infant they were supposed to be supervising.

"Where's the monitor?"

She didn't give Sherlock a chance to reply when she swiftly made for the door adjoining the living area, remembering she'd last seen it on the coffee table.

"I don't understand why you're so upset," Sherlock said, following her into the room. Rose spied the monitor where they'd left it. "This plan means I'll be here, for you and Grace," he continued. "All the time." Rose bent down and switched on the device, which burst into life with the garish tune of the farm animal execution. "And there'll be no risk to you," Sherlock went on. "Isn't that what you've wanted all along?"

Rose straightened up and faced him.

"Not at the cost of losing you," she replied, tamping down her anxiety at last. "You're willing to destroy the whole essence of who you are. How bored are you going to get if you don't have cases to solve? What sort of dull work will Mycroft have you doing from here? Paperwork? That's not you. You have to be out there, chasing criminals, hovering around crime scenes…"

"I don't hover."

"Examining dead bodies."

Sherlock's mouth twitched into a smile.

"They do hold some appeal, admittedly."

"Maybe your plan sounds good on paper," Rose said, reaching for him, "but I don't think it'll work out how you think it will."

"I'm glad you've stopped being angry with me," he remarked, banding his arms around her. "But there's still the finer details to work out, obviously."

Rose's shoulders drooped a little. Perhaps she'd over-reacted a bit initially. And she was supposed to be the professional who knew how to deal with difficult conversation topics! She wasn't going to get around this so easily, but a seed of an idea had spawned in her mind while she was undertaking household chores.

"Perhaps I'm a bit more clear-headed after folding a basketful of laundry," she said, patting his chest and stepping out of his embrace. "And I've thought of something to try first. You like experiments after all."

Sherlock shoved his hands into his pockets.

"Yes?" he said, raising his eyebrows in expectation.

Rose gestured to the sofa and then sank down onto it herself. Sherlock joined her, their bodies angled toward one another. He slid an arm along the back of the sofa and Rose leant into it. She breathed in his aftershave, which had the immediate effect of calming her further.

"I just want to start by saying I'm not going to change my mind about this," Rose began. "I don't agree with your idea at all."

"You never know," Sherlock replied, shrugging lightly. "You might warm to it."

"Why don't we try this," she continued. "Because I don't think you quite get the point I'm trying to make."

Sherlock tilted his head in readiness.

"You return to London… or go back up to Sherrinford… whichever… and do whatever you need to do. Then, when you get back here…. stay. Stay til Christmas or the New Year. That's a good length of time. You've never been with us for more than a few weeks at a time, anyway. Think of it as a trial. No going back to London. No cases, not even email ones. You can tell your contacts back there, or your clients, that you're working on a case abroad, or you can say you're off finding yourself in the Himalayas... Tweet it. Or say nothing. It doesn't matter."

" _Finding_  myself?" Sherlock echoed, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

"In a way, you are. And… maybe you can ask Mycroft for some work. That'll also test whether or not you can keep busy with work given to you by your brother."

There was a momentary silence while Sherlock digested her words.

"If you think that will help," he said.

"Yes," she replied. "I do."

Sherlock's gaze drifted to the coffee table, lost in thought again, Rose assumed.

"Are you in any particular hurry to kill off one of your identities?" she asked.

"Not… really," he conceded, meeting her gaze again with a meek smile.

Rose reached out and cupped Sherlock's face.

"Because I really don't want to lose Sherlock Holmes."

He seemed to study her eyes, and she hoped he'd see the conviction of her words in them.

"You know, you wouldn't have," he said. "It's just a name."

"A name that gives you purpose," she replied, dropping her hand. "You carry yourself differently when you're Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock emitted a throaty chuckle.

"You and John," he said. " _Being Sherlock Holmes_. What does that even mean? You're seeing what you want to see. Don't forget I did spend two years abroad not as myself. Well… mostly not myself."

"Huh. You see?" she said, before whispering a soft kiss to his lips.

"I still think I'm right," he murmured, his mouth hovering over hers.

"Of course you do," she replied, pressing another kiss to his lips, this time one that lingered.

When they broke apart again, Rose said, "And if you're going to be here until Christmas, then there's no real need to get a nanny straight away, is there?"

Sherlock's mouth drifted to the sensitive spot behind her ear. When he pressed his lips there, desire and arousal drizzled through her.

"No need at all," he agreed in a low rumble.

Rose's eyes widened when she detected a change in the air. She drew back from Sherlock's ministrations and looked towards the coffee table. He followed her gaze.

"The execution's over," he murmured.

The baby monitor's constant static was rather telling. Suddenly the indicators burst into life and Grace's protests broke through.

"A nanny sounds like a good idea after all," Sherlock said, a tiny sparkle in his eyes.

"Definitely," Rose said, with a light laugh.

They both rose from the sofa.

"I'll get her," Sherlock said.

"No, we'll both go," Rose countered as they rounded the furniture. Following Sherlock towards the entranceway, she added, with traces of amusement in her tone, "I think we should get rid of it. The mobile, I mean. It might give her the wrong idea about capital punishment."

Sherlock glanced around at Rose and replied, "Let's not completely rule out the idea of mass suicide."

* * *

"If I'm going to be here until Christmas," Sherlock said, running his fingers through Rose's hair as she cuddled into his chest, "then there'll be no need for Mycroft's people to train you."

"Maybe."

His hand stilled and he frowned.

"No 'maybe' about it. No cases for me, so no  _Pilates_  for you," he finished with a casual wave of his hand.

"Wait," Rose said. She shifted, propping herself up onto her elbow to address Sherlock. "That wasn't the deal."

"Why can't it be the deal? Everything we both planned to do has to come to a halt for your little experiment. That is, your spy training and my death."

"It's not spy training."

"Well, whatever it is."

Small creases appeared in Rose's brow which was never a good thing in Sherlock's opinion.

"And how were you planning on dying?" she asked. "Not that I'm going to let you, let's just be clear about that."

"Drug overdose."

"Oh," she said mournfully. "That's awful."

"I know," Sherlock replied, with a smile. "I held out for as long as I could. My abstinence between the Charles Magnussen and Culverton Smith cases was quite a good one. Eight months in all…"

"Mm," Rose said, her frown telling him she was clearly unimpressed. "Almost long enough to grow a baby."

"But sadly," Sherlock continued, trying to avoid all talk of a drug addict who missed the birth of their child, "I couldn't hold out any longer. And a lower tolerance meant I couldn't handle the higher doses I had previously been administering. It wouldn't be a surprise to anyone that Sherlock Holmes, drug addict, took himself out that way."

"But that's not the ending you deserve," Rose lamented.

"It's one people wouldn't look at too closely."

With a sigh, Rose curled herself into Sherlock's side once more.

Bit of a downer, Sherlock thought, as far as conversation topics went, and now they were even further away from the quickie he had wanted only minutes ago in the kitchen. Rose had objected, saying she was so far from being aroused, that there was no way they could have sex in the time they had left before Sherlock's cab arrived to take him to the station.

"I'll need  _so much foreplay_ ," she had said, ending her statement with a wide yawn.

Sherlock had suggested they snuggle in bed to see where that would take them, but they ended up talking, and now here they were, a flagging erection his final contribution and Rose's body growing heavy with sleep.

It wasn't as if he didn't get enough over the last couple of days. All his talk about killing Sherlock Holmes seemed to have awoken a desperate desire in Rose. Sherlock did his best to keep her satiated, and she enthusiastically returned the favour in equal measure. All that creativity and not a pack of Cluedo cards in sight!

But he was leaving for a couple of days now. This was their last opportunity while Grace was asleep in the nursery. If only they could stop talking about serious subjects.

Sherlock smoothed a hand along Rose's arm. Time to step up the skin to skin contact, he thought.

"When do you have to go?" Rose asked.

"Cab will be here at two."

Rose's eyes flickered to the digital clock on the bedside table. A smile grew on her face.

"Then we have seventeen minutes," she said. "It's a good thing we only need fifteen."

* * *

"Oh, do you want to go to Grandma's house for Christmas?" Rose asked Grace as the infant flailed an arm towards the fabric sun, moon and star that were dangling above her.

Rose quickly typed out a reply to Mrs Holmes's invitation to spend Christmas with them.

" _I have to plan these things early,_ " the Holmes matriarch had texted. " _It stops Myke organising his silly meetings around family gatherings so he has an excuse not to come._   _And two years ago, Sherlock took off to the Himalayas!_ "

Christmas was still a while away, but Rose couldn't think of a better way to spend it. She and Sherlock had spent the first Christmas of their relationship in separate countries—continents, even, and their last Christmas had been… well… Christmas Eve held its own significance, but as for the rest... Rose shivered as the unpleasant memories rippled through her.

"And now we've got you," Rose said to Grace. "What do you think? Your first Christmas surrounded by your family?"

A blanket of warmth stole over Rose. Grace's family. Her extended family. One who didn't shun her for merely existing.

She pressed send on the message, " _We'd love to_!" then looked up, tilting her head when she thought she heard the low rumble of a motorbike.

Her heart quickened when the noise grew louder then stopped.

"Daddy's home!" she exclaimed to Grace, leaving the contented infant on her play rug as she made for the entranceway.

Rose stopped before the door, hearing keys jangle in the lock.

When Sherlock stepped through the doorway, Rose practically threw herself at him.

"Uh… Rose… what's wrong?" he asked.

"Nothing," she said, her voice muffled against his neck. "I missed you."

"Oh. Okay," he said, patting her back with his free hand. "Can I just… lock the door again?"

Easing back, Rose murmured a sorry, and felt her cheeks flush. Sherlock slipped his key into the lock, the deadbolts clanking into place. He'd only been gone three days, Rose conceded, but this time he'd not phoned or texted her at all, so it felt like so much longer.

"Where is she?" Sherlock asked, looking towards the stairwell.

"Don't I get a proper hello?" Rose asked.

Sherlock gave her a sheepish smile that faded in an instant. Since he held his motorbike helmet in one hand, he could only slip his free arm around her. Ducking his head, he said, "Hello, Rose." He pressed a firm but brief kiss against her lips and pulled back just as quickly.

"Where is she?"

"In… in the living room," Rose said, deflating a little at his fleeting attention. Sherlock's eyes, she noted, lacked his usual sparkle. "Watching another execution," she added, hoping to lighten the mood.

Sherlock crossed the entranceway for the door to the living room.

Why was he so flat? Rose thought, following him into the room. Was it because he had to stay in Edinburgh now? But this was his idea! Well, a trial run of the spirit of his idea, without the fake Sherlock Holmes corpse.

"Hello! It's Daddy!"

Rose's heart lifted at the brightness in his voice. At least his daughter still had the ability to elevate his spirits.

Sherlock immediately took to the rug, propped up on an elbow, facing Grace.

"You've grown since I've last seen you. You'll be towering over your Uncle John any day now!"

He chuckled and pressed a kiss to his daughter's cheek.

"Cup of tea?" Rose asked.

"I'll just get changed first," Sherlock said, remaining where he was. "And freshen up."

Rose knew Grace would be content for a few more minutes before she would grow bored and want to be lifted up again, if Sherlock left her to get changed out of his biker gear. She had almost finished making the tea when her daughter's first protests drifted into the kitchen, curiously from the entranceway and not the living room.

"I don't like it either," she heard Sherlock saying as she poured milk into their tea. "And there will rarely be a moment in your adult life when you'll need to recall such trivia."

As both father and daughter appeared in the kitchen, with Sherlock now changed into his Scott Williams casual attire, Rose concluded he'd taken his daughter with him when he went upstairs.

"What were you talking about?" she asked.

"The Solar System."

"What abou—"

"By the way, Rose, I should tell you that the Australian au pair will be here at three o'clock."

"What?" Rose glanced at the clock on the wall. It was a little after two. "Why didn't you tell me earlier?"

"I'm telling you now. I've only been home five minutes."

"No, I mean before you left London. God, Sherlock."

Rose quickly returned the milk to the fridge.

"How much notice do you need?"

Dashing past Sherlock, she replied, "More than this."

"Why?"

"Be… cause!" she called back, swiftly exiting the kitchen.

Sherlock didn't appear to be interested enough in her reasons to follow her upstairs. Why would he even think to give her plenty of notice? He probably had no idea that a home required regular cleaning, purging and maintenance to keep it in a condition above liveable. And the nursery was in the middle of an overhaul! Fancy springing a new nanny on her with her infant's room in disarray! Former secret agent or not. What would their potential employee think of them!

Rose had been sorting Grace's clothes by size because she was sick of pulling out unfamiliar garments (purchased by Justine, no doubt) and finding they wouldn't fit for quite some time. In addition, a rather large package had arrived from Mrs Holmes, the wonderful contents of which lay sprawled out over the spare bed.

It took Rose a bit of time to clear everything away. She also gave the bathroom a light going over, leaving the downstairs area til last.

When she entered the living room, she found Sherlock gently swaying with Grace over his shoulder. He was humming a tune Rose didn't recognise. Since his back was to her, she stayed where she was, anchored to the spot in awe.

His rich, deep baritone was surprisingly expressive, yet mournful, as if each melodic fragment that emerged conveyed the full weight of his emotions. There was definitely an underlying sorrow to the tune. Rose held her breath just to hear the darkest notes that verged on silence.

Still swaying, Sherlock turned his head a little to the side.

"Is she due for sleep?" he asked in a voice barely above a whisper.

Rose was jolted out of her hypnotic state, for a split second thinking he wasn't addressing her. She attempted to answer in the affirmative, but nothing escaped her mouth. She cleared her throat and finally replied, "Yes."

He slowly turned then walked towards her. Grace was snuggled against his chest. She looked completely content.

"That was beautiful," Rose whispered, her eyes glistening. Sherlock gave her a tiny smile and stopped in front of her, pivotting to show their daughter's current state. "I think she loved it," Rose remarked, smoothing a hand over Grace's back.

"Mm."

"What's it called?"

"Dunno." He shrugged, then added, "I'm thinking of calling it 'Who You Really Are."

Rose's jaw slackened.

"Y-you wrote that?" she asked, her brows raised in alarm. "But it's so sad."

"It's not about you, don't worry. I was thinking about… my sister."

Rose's exhale took the form of an 'oh'.

"How was she," she asked, "when you visited her?"

Sherlock wordlessly shook his head and gave Rose a grim smile.

"She didn't acknowledge my presence at all. I tried engaging her in conversation. I even spoke about you and… Grace. She kept her back to me the entire time."

"I'm sorry I didn't ask you about her," Rose said. "I should've realised the minute you came through the door. You seemed out of sorts."

"No," Sherlock replied. "I'm not… No. It's not about Eurus."

Rose's eyes widened.

"Oh… Sherlock," she said, visibly deflating. "Are you really worried about staying here til Christmas? Because—"

"No, Rose. It's not our situation here, or you, or anything you've done. I'll tell you later… or... you'll work it out for yourself later. Everything's… fine. You, Grace and I…. were perfectly… fine."

The smile that didn't quite reach his eyes did nothing to reassure Rose. And what was she supposed to work out for herself later? Why did Sherlock always give her these puzzles to solve that caused knots to form in her stomach? And 'fine'? Why were they only 'fine'?

"And I don't mean 'fine' in the way you mean 'fine'," Sherlock hastily added, the beginnings of a smile on his lips. Of course he knew what she was thinking.

When the intercom for the front gate buzzed, Rose's heart jolted.

"Our visitor," Sherlock said. "Why don't you greet her, and I'll take Grace upstairs?"

"So the nanny's a 'her' is she? I was secretly hoping for a guy."

Sherlock huffed a small humourless laugh and turned for the entranceway.

Over by the door, Rose softly called up to Sherlock just before he rounded the bend in the staircase.

"Does that mean she's been vetted by you and Mycroft?"

He gave a quick nod and continued upstairs, his grim expression returning.

Great, thought Rose, before pressing the button on the intercom panel by the door to activate the camera by the gate. Now it was up to Rose to interrogate the nanny. How was she supposed to do that? And what did Sherlock's last expression signify? Wasn't he happy with Mycroft's choice?

"Hello?" she said into the intercom.

"Hi," came a female voice, her face filling the screen. The woman was bit older than Rose expected—not the young sun-bleached, lightly freckled Australian au pair one would normally anticipate. "I'm here for the nanny's position," she went on. Her expression was warm and friendly, despite the glare on her glasses, and she ended her statement with a broad smile.

"Come in," Rose said, pressing the button to release the gate lock.

 _Yes, by all appearances you don't look like a crazed sniper,_  she thought.  _Librarian, perhaps._

If this were a normal interview, Rose wouldn't feel so uncomfortable. But this candidate was a former secret agent… or assassin… or something. Not an  _actual nanny_. What were they going to talk about? Would it all be lies?

Rose opened the front door, planted what she hoped was a relaxed and pleasant smile on her face and watched as the nanny/assassin made her way towards the house.

She reminded Rose of Justine—her build and the way the woman carried herself—fit and energetic. That was reassuring, somehow. But her copper-coloured wavy hair was shoulder-length, not the practical bob Justine sported.

"Bloody freezing," the woman commented with a smile. She rubbed her hands together and said, "And I don't have any gloves. Not used to this! Sorry! Hi! I'm Tracey Moore."

She held out a hand, which Rose took in her own.

"I'm Rose." Gesturing, Rose added, "Please come in. We'll warm you up with a cup of tea at least."

Tracey wiped her feet on the welcome mat and entered the house, looking up at the ceiling as most people did.

"Wow," she said. "It looks deceiving from the outside."

"Yes," Rose said. "Sometimes I think it's much too big for us."

"How long have you lived here?"

As they moved into the kitchen, the conversation flowed along trivial lines. It was the type of small talk Rose would've expected under normal circumstances. But as Tracey mentioned aspects of living in Australia—specifically on a cattle station in the rural area of New South Wales—Rose kept hearing an inner voice that told her the woman was lying.

Far too much detail, the voice would say. Sherlock's voice, naturally.

When the real Sherlock entered the kitchen, they were talking about the garden outside, and Bob's plans for the space.

"Oh, Mr Holmes," Tracey said, rising out of her seat.

"Nope. We're not doing that," Sherlock said, waving a dismissive hand at her. It was almost as if he couldn't be arsed making an effort with conversation, Rose thought. But then again, perhaps it was because he knew the real woman behind the façade, so why play games?

Rose stood up as well.

"We're just having tea," she said, unnecessarily of course, for they had cups in front of them, but she felt the need to keep the atmosphere light and pleasant. "Would you like one?"

"I'll get it myself," Sherlock said, already at the kettle. Without looking at the pair, he added, "Don't let me interrupt your… conversation."

Again, that rudeness. Rose felt her cheeks redden. Was this it, then? The cause of his underlying dismal mood since returning to Edinburgh?

Turning to Rose and taking her seat once more, Tracey asked, "So you were talking about a shade house?"

Rose glanced at Tracey, poised to resume sitting as well, when she heard a tut from Sherlock. His head was bowed, and he was rubbing his brow, something he did when something really bothered him.

Rose felt a light buzzing in her head and her skin prickled.

"I'm sorry," she said to Tracey. "I can't… I can't continue this." On the periphery, she noted Sherlock turning around. Tracey's eyes widened a little. "If this is… fake… then I don't see the point in you being here. I won't have a nanny here, telling me made up stories. I know you have a cover, but at least Justine told me about real experiences and she was genuinely interested in what I had to say. I've got no idea who you really are or how much of your story is even true."

Sherlock had folded his arms in front of him and was leaning against the counter. Tracey rose from her seat.

"What do you think, Sherlock?" she asked.

Rose gasped. Tracey's accent was no longer Australian. There was no drawl. It was… English… and the way she spoke Sherlock's name sounded oddly familiar. And directed at him…  _overly_  familiar.

"You know my thoughts on this already," Sherlock said, his expression bland. "Just get on with it. Mycroft clearly won the bet, and you've made your point. I won't have you deceiving Rose for a minute longer."

Tracey regarded Rose, her eyes shining.

"I'm sorry, Rose," she said affectionately. She removed her glasses, her expression softening. As she tilted her head and revealed a tiny smile, Rose immediately blanched.

"Just so you know," the woman formerly known as Tracey said, "Sherlock only found out about this yesterday."

Rose took a step backwards from the table, her movements stiff and unnatural.

"Mycroft helped her organise it," Sherlock added. "Without my knowledge."

"How…. how are you even… how could you," Rose said, her voice rasping lightly. She raked her eyes down the former assassin. It was so obvious now. But Rose's stomach churned. "This… this is…  _cruel_!"

The air around her stilled. The buzzing in her head grew louder.

"Rose, please understand, there is nothing I wouldn't do to keep my—"

"But it's cruel!" Rose yelled over her. "How can you do this to him… again, after Sherlock…" Rose gestured towards Sherlock, but her words died on a choke. She drew in a steadying breath and said, "He'll never forgive you!"

"He won't ever find out about me. I'll let them live their lives without me, and I'll live mine. I can't ever return to my former life. It's safer for them this way."

Rose looked to Sherlock for guidance, but he had bowed his head and was a rubbing his nape. Clearly he didn't approve. And now this explained his morose mood upon his return. He had blamed himself for her death! He'd gone to hell and back for this woman!

Rose curled her hand into a fist, her heart pounding.

"Then why are you  _here_?" she said forcefully.

"Because," Mary Watson replied with a half smile, "Mycroft said you needed a temporary nanny."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The hint for this chapter was in the chapter title! So sorry! Yes, I pulled a Moffat! (Not Moftiss, but Moffat specifically). In the words of the 9th Doctor, "Everybody lives!"
> 
> One chapter and one epilogue to go! :D


	120. Problem. Someone is About to Die

"Just stop!" Rose yelled at Sherlock. "For Christ's sake!"

"It's all wrong!" he grumbled, tossing another jumpsuit aside. "Can't you see that!"

"No, Sherlock," Mary said, in a much calmer voice. "You really do need to back off now."

Narrowing his eyes, he said, "Two against one, is it?"

"Yes," Mary said, placing her hands on her hips. "When you start sorting baby clothes by thread count, yes it is."

Sherlock's glare ricocheted from Mary to Rose and back again.

"Fine!" he said, storming off.

* * *

"Sherlock!" Rose gasped, aghast, as dozens of boxes of condoms spilled out of his shopping bag and lay claim to the precious real estate on the kitchen counter.

"A well-researched blog post is nothing to sneeze at. Don't you want to contribute something meaningful to the world? The standardisation of packaging! Have you forgotten?"

"We're not resurrecting the condom test and your stupid spreadsheet so you can post it on your blog!" Rose said, plucking out the bag of carrots—the sole item she'd actually asked him to purchase.

_He bought boxes and boxes of condoms from our corner shop along with a whole bag of carrots! I can never show my face in that shop again!_

"There are no stupid spreadsheets. Only stupid…" He paused, as if scrambling for the right words. "Computer operators! We don't have to publish our real names. I'm just trying to put more meaning back into your life."

Rose gaped a little before attempting to retrieve a little of her sanity back.

"Right now," she said, maintaining an even tone, "raising Grace is my main priority. Wrangling a wayward puppy, a close second. That's all the meaning I need in my life at the moment. Being a mother and a—"

"Oh, being a mother's child's play. Anyone could do it with one arm tied behind their back." Sherlock's eyes widened and blazed green and gold. "Oh! That gives me another idea for a Cluedo prop! Where did Bob keep the key to the garden shed? What are you doing right now?" Raking his eyes over Rose's attire, and waving a limp hand at her, he added, "Just wear an overcoat and nothing else underneath. I'll be in the back garden."

* * *

"Where's Sherlock?" Mary asked as she strolled in with the groceries. "I bought that roll of wire he wanted."

"On the roof," Rose said, sliding the tray of roast lamb into the oven.

"Satellite dish?"

"Something like that."

" _Jesus fucking... Christ!_ " came a yell from the back yard, with the accompanying clatter of a ladder falling.

"Or he's in the garden," Rose said, closing the oven door. "And with any luck, sporting a broken neck."

"If he hasn't got one already," Mary said, determinedly striding for the laundry and its access to the back yard, "do you want me to give him one?"

"Yes, please."

* * *

"Quick, run!" Sherlock urged in a fierce whisper.

Rose sprinted until her lungs felt ready to burst. Cold air whipped against her cheeks. Sherlock pulled her along by her arm, her heart pounding at every turn, every duck and weave and climb of chain link fences.

Finally, they arrived in the darkened laneway adjacent to their house, chests heaving.

Rose started giggling. This was getting ridiculous now.

Once she'd caught her breath, she asked, "Why… did… we…?"

"I thought I saw a curtain twitching."

Rose snorted out a laugh again, her sides aching. Sherlock's deep chuckle floated through the darkness beside her.

Gathering her up in his arms, he said, "Did you enjoy that?"

She felt his warm breath against her lips, and in lieu of a reply, she stole a kiss.

Sherlock pressed Rose up against the fence that bounded the outside of their property, their lips locked. His pelvis ground into hers. Pushing him away from her, Rose grabbed at his waistband and unzipped his trousers.

"Was that foreplay?" she asked, breathless.

"Yes," he replied, his voice taking on a rough edge. "Yes, it was."

* * *

"Don't you like my lessons on keen observation?" Sherlock mourned, when Rose sat under the covers, a novel open in her lap, refusing to budge.

"Yes, I love them," she said, turning over a page. "I enjoy our walks." Glancing at Sherlock she added, "Spotting the regular joggers, watching the post get delivered and identifying anomalies in the bin collection schedule. It's thrilling! Spying on our neighbours through their windows at midnight—not so much."

* * *

Rose and Mary surveyed the carnage in Bob and Justine's former sitting room on the second floor. Plaster from the ceiling crumbled beneath their shoes mixed with broken glass and an unidentified sludge. The fallout from the explosion still filled the air in something resembling glitter since it reflected the light filtering in through the windows.

"London?" asked Mary, switching off the gas on an over-turned Bunsen burner.

They regarded the slightly dazed figure who had been blasted against one wall on the opposite side of the room.

"London," Rose agreed with a sigh.

* * *

"Well, John was glad I was back. At least someone is happy to be in my company."

" _I'm_  happy in your company," Rose said, leading Sherlock by the hand through the kitchen towards his bedroom. "Not the company of that maniac who had been deprived of oxygen for the last four weeks."

Sherlock's mouth had turned down at the edges. He was going to milk this for all it was worth.

"Well, it was nice of you to come crawling back to London to apologise for sending me away."

"This isn't an apology," Rose said, closing the bedroom door with a light laugh. "This is Grace and I visiting you after needing one week to get the house back in order."

"So why are you attempting to seduce me in my bedroom?"

Pulling on the lapels of his dressing gown, Rose whispered, "Because I have needs. And Grace is asleep."

Standing tall with a defiant chin, Sherlock tried not to react as Rose pressed light kisses to each corner of his mouth.

The trial was well and truly over. He'd clearly failed in his efforts to  _not be Sherlock Holmes_. Summarily dismissed from Edinburgh! And he  _had_  solved a case given to him by his brother while he was there, even though he'd received nothing more injurious than a mild paper cut. Lord Gorot's pocketing of money from the Diogenes Club's social fund had resulted in a stern talking to by his peers. Case solved. It wasn't Sherlock's fault he had directed all his pent up energy into household maintenance and experiments. And he'd given Rose basic training, where he found Mary's tuition had been lacking. He hadn't exactly been idle!

"Are you actually going to contribute here," Rose asked, as she started unbuttoning his shirt, "or do you expect me to drop to my knees and give you a spectacular blow job?"

"How spectacular?"

"Sherlock! I'm  _not_  here to apologise!"

"All right. Fine. Get your clothes off then."

Rose huffed a humourless laugh and turned from him, muttering, "It's going to be like that, is it?"

Slipping off his dressing gown, Sherlock asked, "How long are you staying?"

Rose finished pulling her jumper over her head.

"Just for the weekend. But we won't be back in Edinburgh for long. We're coming back for Christmas at your parents' house, remember."

"Oh. Christmas," Sherlock repeated, heaving out a sigh as he hung the gown on the hook behind the door. "Not exactly the conversation to have during foreplay," he added, turning around and reaching for the button on one of his shirt cuffs.

Rose gaped, her jumper poised to drop onto the chair in the corner of the room.

" _This_  is foreplay?" she asked. "' _Get your clothes off then'_ , is  _foreplay_?"

Sherlock shrugged. He began unfastening the buttons Rose hadn't managed to get to.

"Well, you're getting your kit off. My request must've worked in some respects."

Rose tutted and shook her head as she turned her back to him. She slipped her top over her head as Sherlock slid his shirt from his shoulders.

"Well I think Christmas at your parents' house will be the start of a wonderful tradition for Grace," Rose remarked.

Sherlock rolled his eyes to the ceiling while his penis remained determinedly pointed in the opposite direction.

"Tradition," he scoffed. "Well, I can't wait til Grace is old enough to continue the tradition of trap building. When she can wield a blow torch—"

"What?" Rose asked, unclasping her bra and turning her head. "Did you say 'trap building'?"

"Yes. It's a Christmas tradition," Sherlock replied, unzipping his trousers.

"In what country?"

"This one." Shoving his trousers to the floor, he explained, "For many years I set a trap for Father Christmas. Until the year Mycroft told me he wasn't real. I think he just got bored of all the baiting and waiting."

As Sherlock stepped out of his trouser legs, Rose spluttered, "Sherlock… that's…. that's not…"

Her skirt pooled around her feet and she stepped out of it.

"Don't tell me you've never heard of it?" Sherlock asked, shaking out his trousers as Rose stood stunned, her hands on the waistband of her tights. "A white-haired, bearded man, with a ruddy complexion and known form…" He paused to drape his trousers over the arm of the chair, "… lugs around a huge sack of what-not, breaks into people's homes and scatters some of his rubbish about. Why  _wouldn't_  any child set a trap?"

"It's not rubbish!" Rose said, emitting a kind of scoff-laugh as she finally shoved down her tights. "They're Christmas presents!"

Sherlock turned down the cover on his side of the bed, muttering, "I clearly remember them as rubbish."

Rose pulled her tights from her feet, then moved to her side of the bed.

Turning down the covers as well, she said, "And most kids just leave out a mince pie and a glass of milk."

Sherlock stood in his black boxer trunks, his eyes widened as he stared unseeing at the wall behind Rose.

"Poison," he murmured. "Why didn't I think of that?"

With a deep sigh, Rose slipped between the sheets. Then she tutted and flung the sheet from her, stood up and began sliding down her knickers.

This action roused Sherlock out of thumbing through his Mind Palace card indexes on  _1001 Ordinary Household Poisons and Their Uses in Incapacitating Loved Ones and Associates_ to skim his eyes over Rose's nude form.

Ah, he thought, before removing his own underwear. Best be fully prepared. His penis stirred a little at the thought of what was coming next.

"Oh, where's the monitor?" Rose said in exasperation, once more sitting rigidly between the sheets.

Sherlock stared at her. Rose stared back. She raised her eyebrows, signalling that the Battle of Wills had commenced...

… and one Sherlock was destined to lose, because he was still standing  _and_  nearest the door.

"Okay,  _fine_!"

He turned for the door and grabbed at his dressing gown. Hoping like hell nobody was standing in his kitchen at that moment, he swiftly exited the bedroom, only then attempting to wrap his gown around him as he strode through to the living area. The dressing gown was still gaping when he returned to the bedroom, monitor in hand.

After flinging the door shut, Sherlock crossed the room and plonked the monitor onto the chest of drawers.

"There," he announced, once more rounding the bed for his side.

"Right. So it's going to be angry sex then," Rose said as Sherlock hung up his gown.

"This isn't Angry Sex," he said, glaring at Rose. "At least Angry Sex is interesting. It involves walls and…. pushing things off tables. This is only Mildly Irritated With Each Other Sex."

A smile teased at the corners of Rose's mouth, and she cast her eyes over Sherlock's entirely naked body.

"Aw," she said, brows arching in sympathy. "And you're not having a good time, are you?"

As she left the bed and made her way over to him, Sherlock frowned. Was she talking to him or his penis?

Pulling up in front of him, and twining her arms around his neck, she said, "Let's start again."

"How can we start again? We're already naked."

"Then this should be so much easier now, shouldn't it?"

Rose enticed a kiss out of Sherlock simply by the hold her eyes had on his. A need quickly built inside as he took the kiss deeper. He ran his hands over her, feeling her shudders of delight. Those lush curves. Her soft, firm skin.

He directed them both, not to the bed, but away from it. Rose broke their kiss, the beginnings of a protest on her lips. Sherlock reached for his gown and tore it away from its hook. His mouth covered hers again, muffling whatever she had to say, as he pressed her against the door. Their tongues entwined. Desire rippled through him.

When his mouth left hers to blaze a trail over her jaw, she finally gasped out, "What… what are we… what are we doing here?"

Sherlock straightened up a little, his fingers still skimming, still smoothing wherever they wished.

"This is Mildly Irritated With Each Other Sex. I've just composed it. A few standard pieces mixed in here and there with something delightful and surprising sprinkled throughout."

"O-kay," Rose replied, her voice trembling a little—Sherlock hoped in eager anticipation.

His fingers reached their intended destination and Rose's sharp intake of breath was music to his ears.

His mouth continued to nibble and suck, teeth nipping into her milky white flesh. His fingertips massaged Rose in torturously slow circles and he listened to her soft gasps and moans. When he reached the soft swell of her breast, she arched, pressing into him with a fierce need. But he continued downwards, running his mouth over her ribs.

Removing his fingers for now, Sherlock grasped the back of Rose's knee, bending and elevating her leg. He slowly sank to his knees, brushing his mouth over her stomach, eliciting primal urges from her.

Her leg now slung over his shoulder, Sherlock lifted his gaze, reverence sparkling in his eyes. Rose's were dark and glazed with passion, her cheeks flushed—a stamp of arousal.

"You might recognise this tune," he said.

Sherlock assumed she would. It always began with her gasping pleas that turned into desperate moans.

* * *

Bodies slick and tangled, they lay in silence for several minutes. The baby monitor continued its steady crackle. Rose smoothed a hand over Sherlock's chest as he pressed a kiss to the top of her head, lingering there to inhale the wondrous scent of apple-pear shampoo.

"When's she due to wake?" Sherlock asked.

"Mm, don't know. Mrs Hudson's hoovering… I expect she'll like the steady background noise. She slept for ages the other day when Mary was doing the carpet on the stairs."

Sherlock threaded his fingers into Rose's hair.

"What was Mary going to do while you're here?" he asked.

"She's got all sorts of projects planned for her cottage. I did say she could stay in the house—she was with us most of the time anyway—but she's adamant she should have a nice place to stay nearby when we want some private time for ourselves."

"Good," Sherlock said. "As long as she doesn't make it her mission to resurrect the tennis club. I'm not sure what Mycroft was thinking buying the place and installing Tracey Moore as the caretaker. He's supposed to ensure nobody ever goes near the place."

"Don't worry. It's just the caretaker's cottage she wants to make comfortable for herself not the tennis courts." Rose stopped her soothing caresses and turned to look up at him, propping her chin up on her hand. "But if it's too comfortable," she said, "then how are we going to get her back to London?"

"I don't know, yet," Sherlock said, raking his fingers once more through Rose's silky strands. "The fact that she's back in the UK at all gives us hope. Now that Mary has a new identity, and her past, once again, belongs to another person entirely, perhaps John can meet her in another context. There's no reason why they couldn't start a new relationship once John gets over his initial shock. Well, 'new' as far as the outside world is concerned."

"They can meet in another context," Rose repeated faintly, as if hearing these words for the first time.

Suddenly she sat up, her expression pensive, her lips slightly parted.

"What is it?" Sherlock asked. He studied Rose's expression for a few seconds. It was unreadable. "Has… Mary… met someone else?"

Rose stared into space for quite some time before exhaling a shuddering breath. Her nostrils flared.

"Rose, what is it?"

Rose's eyes had pooled with tears. When they finally locked onto Sherlock's, she attempted a smile. It fell short by an inch.

"You wanted to give it all up for us," she said.

"Um," Sherlock replied, still bewildered. "Yes."

"That was the wrong way round."

A smile was desperately trying to make it's way through Rose's expression of hopelessness.

"I don't understand," Sherlock said. He pulled himself to a sitting position. It was with desperation that he confessed to this. Rose was behaving very strangely.

The smile broke through and Rose took Sherlock's hand.

"I've always thought I wanted a simple life. I had plans to go to uni, to get an internship, to work hard at my chosen profession. Maybe even marry a nice army soldier. But at every turn, I made some really bizarre choices."

Sherlock's insides twisted. He had a very bad feeling about this journey of self-discovery Rose appeared to be undertaking.

"And I've ended up here. With you. All of my choices led me here."

The smile again was really disconcerting, because Sherlock had no idea what was going on.

"But I went back to Edinburgh to live, where I was supposed to go to Mothers and Baby Coffee Mornings and visit my dad on the weekends and babysit my cousin's kids. But none of that worked out. And you…"

Sherlock's eyes widened in alarm.

"You tried to fit in there. Sherlock Holmes. Not in your native habitat. How stupid were we to think that was the solution. And anyway, my life there doesn't make any sense. My family have disowned me. My friendships can never reach any kind of depth because I always have to keep a part of me a secret. The most important part of me. You."

Sherlock cleared his throat. He had nothing to add.

"I didn't see it. Not until now. Not until you just said the very thing we should've realised long ago. I'm meant to be here. With you. This is the life I choose. Another bizarre choice, but it's the right one."

"Rose… it's not often I don't follow… And I'm sure I've always said that—"

"John and Mary!"

"What?"

"John and Mary! Meeting in another context entirely."

Rose suddenly moved away from Sherlock and slid from the bed.

"John and Mary? … Wait, where are you going?"

Rose had pulled on her underwear and was rounding the bed for the rest of her clothes.

"Come on," she said, her demeanour bright and cheery once more. "You're coming too."

"To where?"

"To get dressed! We have to ring Mycroft! Can't talk to him when we're naked."

* * *

"Now don't forget to drive a lot slower in this weather," Mary said.

"Yes," Rose agreed, attempting to click Grace's safety harness in place.

"And I've replaced the windscreen wiper blades, so you can at least see now."

Rose made no comment. Her nerves were buzzing.

"Rose," Mary said.

"I'm fine, Mary," Rose replied, distracted by the damn harness's three point… fucking… connections.  _You mother-fucking… fucker. Get – in - there!_

"Here, let me do it," Mary said softly.

Rose stepped back from the baby capsule, her heart thudding dully in her chest. Grace was sound asleep. If she was awake and upset, would Rose be able to handle doing this right now?

Suddenly Mary was in front of her, taking Rose's hands in hers.

"Are you sure you're okay with this?" Mary asked.

Rose felt an enormous pressure building up inside. Of course she was fine. She had to be fine. She nodded to Mary, attempted a weak smile, then made the mistake of blinking. A rather telling fat tear escaped.

"You don't have to do this."

"No, I do. It's been planned," Rose said, sniffing. "The weather conditions are perfect. People are wait—"

"Mycroft will understand. Look, it doesn't have to be today, if you need more time. It could be next week or next month… or next year if you want. Or never. Do you know what I'm saying?"

"I know. I really do. And we've thought about this a lot. Too much, maybe. We've had weeks." She pulled her hands out of Mary's and wiped at her face. She attempted to mask her sorrow with a reassuring smile. "I once heard this quote in an old movie and it stuck with me. It was so lovely, but I always thought it was a fantasy, and it would never apply to me. But it's so true now. Something about, when you realise you want to spend the rest of your life with somebody, you want the rest of your life to start as soon as possible."

A broad grin lit up Mary's face.

" _When Harry Met Sally_ ," she said.

"That's it!" A sheepish smile crept across Rose's face. "I watched it for the fake orgasm scene, back when I was… you know."

A chuckle escaped Mary.

"Please don't tell me you used that on—"

"Oh, God no! It was far too over the top. For me anyway. And Sherlock would never… Well… he's Sherlock Holmes. Not so easily fooled. But I'm pretty sure some of the other girls…"

She stopped abruptly as the familiar warm flush of shame stole across her face. Mary's expression softened in sympathy.

Much more subdued, Rose said, "You once asked me what would I do to keep my past a secret. For Grace's sake. For her to never find out about how Sherlock and I met. And this is it. This is for Grace, more than Sherlock and I getting to canoodle in Baker Street."

Mary silently nodded.

"And it hurts, so much that…" She paused, her words becoming ragged. Drawing in a steady breath, she continued, "That there's nothing for us here. There's nobody." Rose jutted her jaw forward in an attempt to dam the torrent of emotions now backed up. "Everyone who cares about us is in London. And they're all… wonderful."

Mary's own eyes had glazed over.

"Yes they are," she murmured.

"And you," Rose said, reaching for Mary's hand. "You'll be there too, some day. Don't make me come and get you."

"Rose."

"I have the skillset now."

A hearty chuckle escaped Mary.

"Oh, come on, Rose. Learning how to break and enter with Sherlock, and then fleeing the scene only to end up having sex in the laneway… What sort of skillset did you acquire?"

Rose's jaw dropped.

"You guys tripped the sensor," Mary said, shrugging. "The alarm went off on my phone. What sort of security guard would I be if I didn't check it out?"

Rose couldn't help herself. A bubble of laughter erupted from her and she couldn't stop giggling when Mary joined in. As their laughter rose and fell, tears rolled down her face. All too soon, the light-heartedness that floated through the air drifted downwards until it settled.

"You're going to have an amazing Christmas," Mary said.

"You would, too, if only you'd come."

"Nope. I told you. Surf, sea and sand. That'll be my Christmas. On a beach in Australia. It sounds so bizarre I have to do it just once."

"And then you'll be back?"

"Try and keep me away from this princess."

Rose studied Mary's eyes before she ventured, "But you have your own."

"Rose, please."

"What are you planning to do? Watch her from afar? Through the school gates?"

"Yes. Probably. Where's the harm in that?"

"How will you be able to resist running up to her when she falls over and scrapes an elbow? Her first bike ride? What if she crosses the road without checking for traffic? What if she falls in with the wrong crowd and ends up doing drugs, and…"

"John would never allow—"

"—and ends up on the streets and selling her body?"

"Rose."

"When will you step in? Because you will want to at some point. And will she accept help or advice from a mother she doesn't even know? If you're going to be around so much, you may as well be there for her from the beginning."

Mary cast her eyes downward and exhaled a weary breath. She took a moment before she looked up and gave Rose a rueful smile.

"I don't know, Rose. But now isn't the time for this conversation. You have a small window in which to do this, yeah?" She drew Rose into a hug and said, "Now get going, you, or I'll drive you to Jedburgh myself. You're a bloody pain in the backside."

"I do what I can."

* * *

John drained his cup of tea and held the newspaper out in front of him. A quick glance at the sofa revealed an exhausted Consulting Detective struggling in vain to stay awake while patting the infant girl on his chest. A smile tugged at one corner of John's lips. He dragged his eyes back to the paper and the article that had caught his attention.

Furrowing his brow, he read:

_A female driver and an infant have died after the car they were travelling in hit a tree and burst into flames in foggy conditions near the Scottish border town of Jedburgh. A police spokesman said the vehicle was completely destroyed and investigators are currently looking into why it caught fire after the collision._

_Road crews had been carrying out maintenance work along the roadway earlier in the week, including ditchwork and trimming vegetation. Detours for all vehicles had still been in place over the weekend, so it is not known at this stage why the driver hadn't heeded the traffic control signs that were in place._

_A local farmer, who discovered the smouldering wreckage, said, "This is the worst fog I've seen in a long time. There was no visibility on these roads all weekend, which is dangerous for those who don't know them well. It's a terrible tragedy for this mum and her bairn."_

_Much of Scotland and England have been blanketed in heavy fog and forecasters warned that visibility could be reduced to less than 100 yards. The Met Office have issued a yellow weather warning._

_Highways England urged people to allow more time for travel and to take extra care in fog, heeding all traffic control signs and barriers._

_The driver is believed to have been a 29-year-old female from Edinburgh, travelling with her three month old infant daughter. Their next of kin has been contacted._

_Police have appealed for witnesses._

John opened his mouth to make a comment to Sherlock, when he noticed his friend's hand had stilled and his face had slackened. John folded up the paper with a grim smile. Behind him in the kitchen, there was a tinkling of crockery.

"Another cuppa, John?"

_~ THE END ~_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An epilogue will follow shortly.


	121. Saving Her Forever

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay. I had a bit of vacation time (including a trip to the UK… woohoo!) then found it difficult to finish writing this chapter. Since there's a bit of a time jump between this chapter and the previous one, perhaps the delay is a good effect anyway. I've included flashbacks to fill in some of the gaps, because huge, unexplained gaps in time make my eye twitch.
> 
> The name 'Katherine Cusack' in this chapter comes from the ACD story The Adventure of the Blue Carbuncle, in which 'Catherine Cusack' is a maid-in-waiting. It's hard finding female names to borrow from ACD adventures, but I always like making some connection back to canon.
> 
> Anyway, on with the epilogue, the REAL final chapter, I'm sorry to say!

 

"If you could just…" Lestrade paused, gesturing with fingers splayed. He heaved a sigh, deflating in the process. "Look, just play nicely. She's on loan from the Secret Service—your brother's people. So if you could be… a little accommodating... We might like to use her on a regular basis, so don't put her off."

"I really don't see the point of getting someone else in," Sherlock said, trying his best to sound offended.

"Because we need the paperwork done, Sherlock. That's all it is… for the most part."

"Paperwork?" Sherlock repeated through narrow eyes. He turned the concept over in his mind and found it seriously wanting.

"Well… yeah," the D.I. continued. "We can't have you swanning in, making your usual lightning speed deductions and then pissing off again. We can't use something like that. It needs to be done by the book. The T's crossed and the I's dotted."

"You want bureaucratic-speak, is that it? And a form filled in with all those little boxes ticked?"

"Yes. We do. And this… this Katherine Cusack can do that. She'll have her own professional opinion, of course, but if you two work as a team…" Sherlock tutted loudly, barely stifling an eyeroll. "… then maybe she can turn some of your deductions into something the department can actually use."

"I'm not making any promises."

"Then just… just promise me you won't deduce  _her_."

"Why would I care to?"

"Because that's something you do. For fun." Lestrade's face slackened, his shoulders echoing the same movement, like some kind of weary Mexican wave. "Look, just don't make her cry."

"Since when have I ever made one of your people cr—"

"Detective Constable Petersen last week. Well, he'd just lost his dog that morning, but still…"

Sherlock scoffed, then made a show of checking his watch, even though he knew what time it was to the nearest minute.

"And is  _punctuality_  one of her specialisms?" he asked.

"Er…" said Lestrade, scratching the back of his head. "I think she's had a bit of trouble with the… er… babysitter… shouldn't be too long."

Sherlock furrowed his brow.  _Babysitter? That can't be right._

"I _do_ have other appointments," he said, striving to project a nonchalant air.

"So… yeah," Lestrade went on. "Well, she's a single mum. I know that for a fact. Try not to make a  _thing_  of it, all right?"

"And you know this information… how?"

"'I've got people who know people."

"And is it relevant?"

"Well, you wanted to know why she was late."

"That's… not what I asked."

"Oh, and another thing," Lestrade said. "She prefers to go by her second name."

"Oh, for God's—"

"Yes,  _William Sherlock_ ," Lestrade interjected. "Her  _second_  name. Some people prefer that, I believe."

"Anything else, Detective Inspector? Her favourite colour, perhaps?"

"Ah…" Lestrade said, indicating the door with a nod of his head.

A WPC led a young woman onto the floor. Sherlock's chest swelled at the sight of her. She wore a navy blue single-button jacket with matching slim-fitting trousers and a white blouse. Quite the professional look. A lanyard holding an identity card hung around her neck. With the exception of mascara, she wore very little makeup. Her wavy blonde hair was swept up into a tight bun, but a few strands had escaped and fell about the wire-rimmed glasses that framed her face.

" _Oh, did you pull Mummy's hair out?"_ Sherlock heard her say in his Mind Palace.

" _That's because she wants Mummy to stay home,"_ his own voice volunteered.

" _I think it's Daddy who wants Mummy to stay home today."_

Sherlock's heart ached with the memory—his daughter's chubby little fists firmly holding a strand of her mother's hair. Well, he'd only had her back for one night before she had to hit the ground running with this new assignment this morning. He'd not had her company for eleven days.  _Eleven_!

Sherlock firmed his jaw, thus creating a stony visage.

The WPC gestured toward the pair, and the visitor nodded her thanks.

"Ah… Ms Cusack?" Lestrade said, extending his hand. "Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade. I spoke to you on the phone."

"Yes, hello," she replied, her expression bright and friendly as her hand was engulfed in Lestrade's mitt. "Lovely to meet you finally, Detective Inspector. And please call me Rosalie… well, Rose, actually..." Her smile widened. "Easier," she added, shrugging lightly.

"Yes, well… Greg, then if that's… ah.. easy…. Oh, and this is—"

"Oh, for Christ's sake," Sherlock muttered, before spinning on his heels and marching away.

Behind him, he heard Rose say, "Just give us a few minutes, would you, Greg? I assume he's Sherlock Holmes. I did want to have a word in private."

Ah, thought Sherlock, as he strode towards the interview observation room. MI6's newest Forensic Psychologist, Katherine Rosalie Cusack—on a super fast-track courtesy of one Mycroft Holmes—so, she was determined to have a few quiet words with the World's Only Consulting Detective, was she? Circumvent his usual sociable manner? Well, she had another thing coming.

Sherlock entered the tiny room and stood with his hands folded behind his back as he stared into the empty interview room through the one-way glass.

The door clicked shut behind him.

"So this is what it's like to meet the famous net detective for the first time? I'd forgotten. Although, you were a lot nicer to me initially."

Sherlock's mouth eased into a half smile as he turned his head.

"You didn't have a clue who I really was back then," he replied. "But perhaps I'm getting grumpier in my old age."

Rose's hand slipped into his, and he curled his fingers around hers.

"No, I think you're ageing perfectly," she said, "but I'm guessing you secretly like this persona."

He turned to face her and found himself lost in her adoring gaze. Eleven days! And her return the night before offered limited opportunity for snuggling, what with Grace up and down, a party to plan, and paperwork to peruse by the morning.

"Hello, Rose," he said, before ducking his head.

Rose's eyes immediately widened and she stopped his kiss with flattened fingers.

"We can't do that here!" she whispered fiercely.

"Nonsense," said Sherlock. "Lestrade has to fill in a form—tick lots of little boxes, while he flirts with the desk sergeant. Then he'll duck into the loos for a nervous piss."

"Sherlock!"

"Well, this is an important interrogation for him. Career-defining and all that rubbish. That's why he's brought in the experts. And now he has someone else to impress. That's you, by the way. But we've got ten minutes at least. Right then… where were we?"

Placing a hand on the small of her back, he drew Rose towards him and touched her lips with his. After applying a small amount of pressure, he felt her respond through parted lips. He savoured the taste of her, their tongues meeting briefly, but he reluctantly drew back. That was enough for now. Wrong place and all that.

"That… that's why you didn't want me wearing makeup," she murmured. There was no mistaking her arousal, Sherlock observed, even through the lenses of her glasses. Darkened pupils. It had been eleven days and nights for Rose as well.

"Mm, no. There's another reason."

She raised a quizzical brow, but Sherlock had other matters to clear up first. He released her from his embrace.

"Why were you late?" he asked. "Lestrade said something about trouble with the babysitter, but Justine and Mary have a rost—"

"It wasn't the babysitting. You're right." Rose gave Sherlock a grim smile. "I… I got my period. Unexpected… sorry. Had to go back and change." Sherlock felt a little jolt in his heart, but he let Rose go on. "At least now we know I've got my cycle back," she said.

She held his gaze, her eyes studying his, probably for signs he may be upset.

But of course he wasn't. Was he?

"Yes… yes… no, it's fine," Sherlock said, blinking a couple off times.

He should never have built up his expectations like he had. Own fault really.

Rose reached out and rubbed his arm.

"We had a lot of fun trying," she said, a smile tugging at the corners of her lips.

Sherlock cast his mind back to their antics in the main bedroom of Rose's new house in Notting Hill.

" _Conception will occur in about twelve hours. Mark my words."_

A particularly confident statement he'd uttered post-coitus a fortnight ago.

_He leapt from the bed, grabbed Rose by the ankles and pivotted her around. She yelped at first, and then giggled as Sherlock propped her legs up against the wall above the head of the bed._

" _Stay there!" he ordered her._

" _For how long?"_

" _Oh… a couple of hours. Don't want to lose any. I told you… I'm feeling pretty potent at the moment."_

" _Sherlock! I'm not staying like this for two hours. I've got things to do!"_

" _I'll bring you a cup of tea."_

Yes, they'd had fun  _trying_.

All those months of wondering if Rose was even ovulating when the breastmilk began to dry up. Grace was still feeding just before bedtime up until a month ago, and that seemed enough to keep up a small amount of milk production, a situation Rose couldn't help feel guilty about.

It wasn't something she'd like to sustain in the long term—this working mother business. It was what she needed to do to establish herself in the industry; Mycroft actually made her work for her credentials during a brief but rather intense period in a special section of MI6, ending with eleven days in Prague. The new assignment to Scotland Yard would now provide her with the perfect opportunity to "meet" Sherlock Holmes.

During one conversation, Rose told Sherlock she longed to stay home and raise their children herself until they reached school age. And then she'd blushed and corrected herself.

" _Child, that is," she said. "I mean, when Grace reaches school age."_

" _No," Sherlock said, taking the tea towel out of Rose's hand. They were standing in the kitchen, making up bottles of formula. "You were right the first time. When_ our children  _reach school age."_

_As Rose's eyes grew large, Sherlock could barely suppress a smile._

" _What?" he said, feigning innocence. "She can't be an only child. I mean, you're an only child and look how you turned out."_

" _Wow, thanks!"_

" _And if they're going to have me as a father, then I think they'd want each other for support." He blinked, suddenly feeling awkward. "I'm… probably not going to be… conventional… perhaps not even... adequate."_

" _Don't say that! That's entirely untrue!"_

" _And you're the other parent, so they can't share horror stories with you. They'll need to console each other."_

" _You're going to be a wonderful father," Rose said, taking the tea towel back. "You_ are  _a wonderful father. Maybe not conventional, yes, but that's what makes you even more amazing! Grace lights up whenever you're in the room. Don't ever doubt yourself, Sherlock! But you're right…" She turned back to the kitchen counter and reached for the kettle. "I'd love Grace to have a sister or brother some day."_

_As she poured boiling water into the first baby bottle, Sherlock added, "And I don't want there to be a huge age gap between her and her siblings…"_

_When Rose jolted, obviously stunned again, almost spilling boiling water over her hands._

" _Yes, siblings, plural," Sherlock confirmed, reaching for the bottle of water and its cap and lid. "Four's a nice number," he said, screwing on the lid. "I don't know why people always stop after three. There's something about the number three. And if they're going to outnumber you, you may as well keep the numbers even."_

_He pulled two more of the empty, sterilised bottles towards Rose and raised his eyebrows._

_Rose clamped her mouth shut, her eyes watering as she filled the second bottle. Why was she getting so teary, Sherlock wondered._

" _Two sounds nice," she said faintly._

" _Mm, no. I think four," Sherlock said, capping the second bottle. "So, we should get a move on before you get too old and..." Rose froze, the kettle hovering over bottle number three._

" _You know, that's really insens—"_

" _Whereas I," Sherlock went on, without pausing for breath, "I could produce semen forever. Now, there's seven years between Mycroft and I. That's far too big an age gap. Mycroft seemed like another parental figure to me, another person to nag me, be disappointed and…"_

_His rambling came to an abrupt halt as if he'd just run full pelt into a brick wall._

_Thoughts battered his mind: Mycroft rescuing him repeatedly over the years from whatever drug den he'd found his little brother passed out in. Another twinge of guilt._

" _And," Sherlock managed to say, swallowing the lump in his throat and reaching for the last bottle, "…and though he's always been very supportive, I would've preferred someone near my own age as wel—"_

_Oh, Christ. It just didn't get any better. He bowed his head and breathed out._

Play with me, Sherlock.

_Sherlock's heart-rate accelerated._

" _Despite what she said," he murmured, resolutely screwing on the lid for the last bottle of boiled water, "we did play together on occasion. She taught me the violin, after all."_

_Rose gave him a reassuring smile. Reaching for his hands, she said, "And you're playing the violin together now. You've progressed quite a bit in the last few months. You still have a connection there."_

" _Mm," he agreed. There had indeed been progress. No conversations just yet, but the little piece he had once hummed to Grace all those months ago had evolved into a duet he and Eurus had just recently performed in front of their family. Progress._

" _So, yes, four," he said, shaking those thoughts loose. "Let's get started then."_

Rose had reached for his hands in much the same way she had during that conversation in the kitchen.

"We can time it properly," she said, "now that we know we're at the start of my cycle."

"It would be easier if you just let me take your temperature each morning."

"Sherlock…"

"There's nothing wrong with using a bit of basic science, Rose."

"You really want to have sex at just the right time, don't you?" she asked. There was a trace of humour in her tone.

Not at just the right time. He had needs that hadn't been met in eleven days and nights!

But there wasn't anything wrong with not wasting one drop.  _Speaking of the right time_ … Sherlock glanced towards the door. They still had a few minutes before Lestrade and company arrived for the interview with their prime suspect. Sherlock had to get a move on. He eased his hands out of Rose's grasp.

"Well, I was going to ask you out for coffee after work today… then a bit of sex back in my flat…"

"Mr Holmes… that's moving things a bit fast, isn't it?"

"No, no. Call me  _Sherlock_ , please. It's… easier."

She grinned. "Arsehole."

"So in light of recent revelations," Sherlock said, standing taller and folding his hands behind his back, "perhaps just a bit of heavy petting instead?"

"Still a bit much for a first date."

"A quick snog?"

"Mm. Perhaps." Rose reached for his lapels and tugged on them. "Whatever we can fit in before our guests arrive."

_Guests? Oh… The party_. Sherlock's shoulders sagged a little. Why did a soon-to-be one year old need a party?

"And if you're nice to me this morning," Rose added.

"Nice?" Sherlock repeated with a wry smile. "Sherlock Holmes doesn't do  _nice_." Turning from Rose, he proceeded to slowly pace. "Two things," he continued. "Lestrade said don't deduce you and don't make you cry. I shall endeavour to do both."

"Really? But it's my first day!"

"I'm Sherlock Holmes. This is what I do."

Rose had turned in his direction as Sherlock began a slow circuit around her.

"Lestrade already told me you were a single mother," he began.

"Did he?"

"You're on one income with a dependent, yet you're wearing a tailor-made suit… Savile Row, if I'm not mistaken."

"You're cheating. You were there, insisting on getting your tailor—"

"Shh! Deducing here…"

Sherlock continued his slow circuit around Rose in the confines of the interview control room. "I'm simply saying everything anyone with basic observational skills can glean from you right now. Those half-wits out there could've picked up on this if they had a mind to." He cleared his throat and narrowed his eyes. "Now… where was I? Oh yes."

Sherlock stepped forward, stooping a little, and took a deep inhale in the vicinity of Rose's collar. She giggled and hunched her shoulders.

"Male cologne," he said, straightening up. "Top shelf. Obviously a man with expensive tastes. And he embraced you. Not the quick hug of a colleague or family member, but a prolonged embrace." Taking a quick sniff closer to her neck, he added, "A lover then."

"Still cheating."

"It's all there," Sherlock said, waving a hand at her as he began his slow circuit once more. "Now," he said, taking a few seconds to navigate around the back of Rose as his eyes scanned her from head to toe. It was a good thing he'd decided to wear his black suit today. They hadn't wanted to wear matching outfits.

"Mm," Sherlock said, frowning as he focussed on the finer details.

"What?" Rose asked, her brows raised as if in alarm.

"Not just any lover."

Rose tutted. "Please don't tell me you can deduce how amazing in bed he is."

"No, no. I can tell that by the confident smirk on your face."

"Liar," she said with a light chuckle.

"I'm looking at this."

Sherlock stopped by Rose's side and reached for the strand of hair that had been mercilessly pulled from her neat bun by a moody infant.

"And in particular, what's attached."

He slid his fingers along the strand of hair, pulling from it a dried brown substance. He held it out between pinced fingers, before popping the substance into his mouth. Rose grimaced.

"Cereal," he said. "Or more specifically, baby cereal."

"Oh…" Rose said.

"And not just in your hair."

"Really?"

Sherlock plucked another sample from Rose's collar.

"Oh my God!" she exclaimed, her brows knitted together in a quiet horror.

"Don't worry. Nobody would've spotted it unless they were standing this close to you." Sherlock flicked the sample to the floor. "But it does tell me what kind of lover he was."

"Oh, please," Rose said, disbelief evident in her tone.

"You held your infant, the one who grasped your hair with breakfast all over their fingers, after you had dressed for work. And you embraced your lover after you had dressed for work. Therefore the infant and the lover were in your presence around the same time. Not just a casual fling or a one-night stand. Why would you allow a casual lover around your child? And it's Wednesday morning. You didn't go out and pick up on a Tuesday night. This is a serious relationship, then."

Sherlock took a step back and lifted Rose's left hand. Running a thumb over her fingers, he said, "Lestrade told me you were a single mother, and the absence of a ring tells me you're not even engaged. And it's not as if you've removed any jewellery you usually wear. No indentations or tan lines."

Sherlock lifted his eyes and held Rose's gaze.

"Which prompts me to ask," he continued, "why would a man with exceptionally good taste…" He paused and quirked a smile. "… who is amazingly handsome and outstandingly good in bed…" Rose rolled her eyes. "… and who has no qualms about being in a domestic situation with you, want to continue being single when he could have you? The only conclusion I can come to is…" Sherlock stopped for effect, folding in his upper lip before he spoke again. Going in for the kill, so to speak. "An engagement is imminent."

Confusion flitted across Rose's features as Sherlock released her hand and reached into his breast pocket. His breath hitched a little when his fingers felt the smooth velvet box nestled inside. Rose's eyes were already pooling with tears when he pulled out the box.

Everything had gone so smoothly, but now Sherlock's pulse thudded in his ears. Up until now, it had all been theoretical. But the air had stilled. This was happening in real-time.

Rose's lips were parted, but when she spied the ring box, she took a sharp intake of breath and covered her mouth.

"Rose, I am a ridiculous man," Sherlock began, using the very words Rose had written on his behalf once upon a time for his best man speech.

"No, Sherlock," Rose half-sobbed, stepping back. She held up a quivering hand as if to stop him. "Not now. Not… not  _here_."

Sherlock discarded his prepared speech for the moment and quickly narrowed the gap between them, dropping the hand that held the ring box as well.

"Yes, here," he said, his voice raking over gravel. "It has to be."

Rose's eyes continued to fill, and she lifted her glasses to dab at her eyes. Sherlock scrambled for an explanation.

"If it were anywhere else—a fancy restaurant, behind the clockface of Big Ben, Edinburgh, Paris, our bedroom—you'd know straight away that something was up. I wanted to surprise you. And it had to be now, because I had the realisation that we'd be exposed. Our new found relationship. This was our plan— _your_  plan: to meet under entirely different circumstances. And with our courting underway, there'd be pressure, eventually. My parents, our friends, perhaps the wider world, if they're still interested in gossiping about Sherlock Holmes and the company he keeps… pressure from them for me to do this."

He lifted the ring box and held it between them again.

"And I wanted you to know that this is all me. Nobody else's idea. I want this, Rose. For us. You and me and Grace and three other yet-to-be named children."

A tiny laugh escaped Rose as tears streamed down her face.

"So may I get on with my propos—"

Footsteps approaching caused him to halt. Sherlock immediately took two steps backwards, shoving the ring box back inside his breast pocket just as the door to the corridor opened.

Sherlock stood taller, neatly folding his hands behind his back, his face defaulting to its neutral position.

Rose, however, hid nothing. Her face was tear-stained and flushed, her mascara smudged, and the tip of her nose had turned pink.

Greg Lestrade looked from one to the other, his mouth slowly forming an 'o'.

"Sorry, Greg," Rose said, sniffing and dabbing underneath her glasses again. She made for the door, saying, "I just need to freshen up… a bit." Bowing her head, she brushed past the stunned D.I. and escaped into the corridor.

"Bloody..." began Lestrade. He paused long enough to quickly shut the door behind him. "Bloody hell, Sherlock! What did you do?"

"I simply deduced her and told her the truth. I don't know why people cry when they hear the truth."

"What! Didn't I…?" Greg raised his hands into the air, as if at a loss for words. "What did I tell… I said… Oh, fucking hell!"

Lestrade pulled at the roots of his hair, the colour draining from his face.

"Go… now…" he said, clearly seething far too much for coherent discourse. He reefed open the door. "You have until eleven to get her back here."

"Oh, relax, Greg," Sherlock said as he made for the door. "She's… moderately intelligent. A so-called expert on the human psyche. She'll figure me out." Stopping on the other side of the threshold, he turned to the D.I. and added, "I could probably work with her, if I have to. Teach her a few things. As a peace offering, perhaps I'll ask her out for coffee afterwards. Isn't that what people do?"

"Don't you dare!"

Sherlock quirked a smile. "She's single, did you say? I can be charming when the situation calls for it."

"Sherlock!"

As he strode along the corridor towards the bathrooms, Sherlock affectionately patted his breast pocket, a smile stretching wide on his face. He resisted the urge to whistle a merry tune.

* * *

Rose examined her eyes in the mirror behind the sink, having removed her glasses. She no longer looked like a panda. Thank God for that. Bloody Sherlock.

But her heart fluttered all the same. He'd proposed to her! Hadn't he?

Well he was going to, so maybe that technically counted. A warmth drizzled through her for all that this gesture signified.

She closed her handbag but was startled when the door to the bathroom swung inwards and a beaming Consulting Detective strode towards her.

"I haven't quite finished," he said.

"Oh," she said on an exhale, deflating. "I've just cleaned myself up."

"No, you still look like a sobbing mess."

"You're  _so_  romantic."

"I know," he said, grinning from ear to ear.

"Sarcasm, Sherlock."

Stopping in front of her, Sherlock said, "Just let me get this proposal out. I've prepared a speech. I even rehearsed in front of Grace… Admittedly, she threw a wooden block at me halfway through, but I'm sure she's on board."

"Sounds promising."

Rose folded her arms in front of her, then felt it was too defensive a gesture. Hanging her arms uselessly by her side made her feel as if she didn't care, so she gently clasped her fingers together. She saw Sherlock's chest rise and fall, as if he drew in a steadying breath. He pulled out the ring box once more and held it in an open palm.

"Rose, I am a ridiculous man."

Rose felt her eyes well with tears once more. He really was going to make a speech! Emotion bubbled inside her. She didn't think she could stand there and listen to him. Not now. Not in the female toilets of the Metropolitan Police Service.

"Oh, for God's sake," Sherlock muttered, obviously annoyed at Rose now hiccupping into her hands.

He moved quickly, enveloping her in his arms and patting her back.

A bit too firmly, Rose thought. With a touch of… impatience.

"Yes," she said, her voice shaking. Looking up at Sherlock through tear-stained eyes, she said, "Yes, I will. I do."

Sherlock tutted.

"I haven't actually posed a question yet. Rose…" He released his hold on her and took a step back. "Please allow me…"

"Fine," she said, wiping at her eyes with the heels of her hands.

He sighed again, and once more held up the ring box.

"Rose, I am a ridiculous man…"

Rose's gaze rested on the box.

"Oh God, is that the ring you used on Janine?"

"Oh, for Christ's sa— No. No, it's not."

He opened the box and Rose gasped at the delicate platinum ring housing a solitaire oval diamond with smaller diamonds set along the band.

"I chose this just for you," Sherlock said, easing the ring out of its enclosure. He dropped the box onto the counter beside the basins and held out his hand for Rose's. "Your right hand," he said. "Don't want people to think you're engaged just yet. This could've been handed down from your mother. Katherine Cusack's mother, that is. Family heirloom or something. Sentiment. Which is why you'd be wearing it."

Rose held her breath as Sherlock slid the ring along her finger. To breathe was to become a blubbering mess, so she wouldn't.

"Rose," he said solemnly.

"I know," she replied, dragging her eyes from the engagement ring and meeting Sherlock's gaze. "You're a ridiculous man."

"And I have a speech."

Rose slid her arms up to encircle Sherlock's neck.

"You always have a speech," she said. "You've made a lot of speeches over the past year. I get it. I understand. We've been through this. Yes, you deserve me, so don't say you don't. Yes, you're still learning, but so am I. We're growing together. And yes, I've made a great sacrifice for us all and you don't know how your actions will ever compare. But they do. Every moment of every day. You're a wonderful, amazing dad to our daughter. Beyond comparison. And I…" Her mouth dried up and she found it hard to swallow. "And I wonder how I deserve you." Her voice crackled a little. "And I've chosen you for life… we've chosen each other… for this extraordinary life we're going to lead. But please don't make a speech. We've got work to do, and now I look utterly shite… and… and that's all I have to say."

Sherlock touched his forehead to hers, a smile forming on his lips.

"Thank God for that," he said, "because as far as speeches go, that was rubbish."

His smile broadened, the little crinkles appearing around his eyes.

"But let me say this," he went on, "an addendum, if you like." His hands cupped her face and he smoothed a thumb over one stale tear track. A warmth trickled through Rose as she gazed into his glistening eyes, before Sherlock spoke again.

"I've dealt with serial killers, gangsters, assassins and psychopaths, gone to hell and back all for a case, but you've saved me from my worst enemy ever. Myself. I shudder to think about the man I may have become if I hadn't met you. You helped me see myself through your eyes. You've given me a reason to live a good life, to be a better man, a good father and a… a loving husband, if you'll have me."

He paused to inhale as a lump formed in Rose's throat.

"Rose… you know I'm committed to you for life… I've already told you that in so many ways… so this gesture isn't telling you anything you don't already know." He smiled briefly— _a little unsure of himself?_ Rose thought. He let his hand drop, smoothing it along Rose's arm and coming to rest around her waist.

"It may seem like a waste of time," he went on, "but as we're living in a world of convention and ritual, and a small portion of the world seems interested in me… and probably us… eventually… that's all of us: our children, too… then I want to make these small gestures of normality to help them… and us… slot in a little easier. Hiding in plain sight." A smile grew on his face as he spoke. "They'll have us for parents after all: square pegs in round holes. So this…"

Sherlock gently lifted Rose's hand, brushing his thumb over the engagement ring.

"This…" he continued, his brow furrowing, "is as much for them as it is for us." His chest heaved as he drew in another long breath. "Rose… will you marry me?"

His brows arched, as if he really didn't know what to expect for an answer.

Rose's face split into a broad grin. So much for not making a speech!

"Yes," she managed to rasp.

Before she could catch her breath, Sherlock gathered her up and kissed her softly and tenderly, sending an unexpected ripple of delight all through her. She tasted his passion, his desire, his…  _joie de vivre_.

Rose eased back, the air humming between them.

"If only…" she began, breathlessly, "… we weren't… here…" Her voice, thick and rough, left her as she met Sherlock's lips with hers once more. She intended only to sample briefly, one more time, but her skin felt flushed. Sherlock, with his clever tongue, deepened their kiss until Rose's body throbbed, a sweet ache taking hold.

When he slid his lips from hers to brush her throat, Rose stammered, "We really… shouldn't…"

But excitement was rising in her. Sherlock emitted a deep chuckle, causing a ball of heat in her belly.

"Oh… kay…" Rose said, pressing against his chest. Perhaps she shouldn't have fallen asleep in his arms last night, with the promise that she'd " _only close my eyes for a minute."_ Her late flight had exhausted her, and with Gracie so restless, probably because she knew her mother had returned, and Mrs Hudson in a bit of a panic about the birthday party the next day, there was no time for intimacy of this nature. And she had felt his absence only too keenly throughout her entire body while she had been away.

"Don't worry," Sherlock murmured before straightening up. "I'll fix this."

The dizzying scent of his aftershave still lingered around Rose and she rubbed at her face before realising what Sherlock was up to.

"Wait…" she said, "Why do you have a key to the cleaner's cupboard?"

"Because," Sherlock said, closing the small red door adjacent to the hand dryer, "you never know when you'll need it."

Sherlock strode to the exit holding a bright yellow plastic object in his hand. He quickly opened the door and placed it onto the floor in the corridor. Rose now could see that the object was a free-standing "Cleaning in Progress" sign.

"So…" Sherlock said, latching the door before making his way back to her. He glanced at his watch. "Lestrade said we have until eleven. That's a quarter of an hour away." His eyes full of purpose, he loomed closer, making Rose back up against the tiled wall behind her.

"This is… unprofessional," she said, smoothing her hand over Sherlock's shirt.

Sherlock hummed in agreement.

"And…" she went on. Lowering her voice as her hand glided southward, she said in a half-whisper, "Irresponsible."

"Yes. It is."

As she tugged at his waistband, pulling them both towards an empty stall, Rose whispered, "Fifteen minutes did you say?" Locking her eyes on his, she asked, "What could we possibly achieve in fifteen minutes?"

THE END

-oOo-

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading all the way to the end. This epic has spanned five years of my life, and I've learnt a lot about writing during that time and met some really lovely people. 
> 
> This story started out as a bit of fun—initially a one-shot on fanfiction.net, and then after that it wasn't meant to go beyond the first 12 chapters. I'm so glad I came back to it after S3 aired. Rose clearly had her story to tell, and I decided she had been in the background of the series all along! I was surprised by the interest that grew during that time.
> 
> Perhaps some day I'll go back and fix the multi-POV scenes in the first 40-something chapters and change them into single POVs. And maybe that'll inspire me to write a one-shot or two. But for now, this is all I'm going to write about Sherlock and Rose and their growing family. I'm not holding my breath for a series 5, and I don't think the way I finished this story will fit seamlessly into the "two men and a baby solving crimes from 221B" scenario Moftiss have going there. But rest assured, Rose and Sherlock will have a wonderful life together, with Grace, and three more yet-to-be named children!
> 
> Thanks for reading and much love to all!
> 
> elbafo
> 
> x


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